UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


HROM   THE    LIBRARY   OK 

BENJAMIN   PARKE  AVERY. 


GIFT  OF  MRS.  AVERY, 
r 

Accessions  No.  tf /767)  4~  Class  No. 


^  >^ 


POEMS. 


BY 


ALEXANDER    SMITH 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,   REED,  AND  FIELDS 

MDCCCLIII. 


THUnSTOK,  TOKKY,   AND    EMERSOX,   PRINTERS. 


CONTENTS. 

A  LIFE-DRAMA        ...  • 
AN  EVENING  AT  HOME                 ....  161 
LADY  BARBARA       .                                               •               .  .        173 
TO  ......  IT- 
SONNETS                      .               •               •                •  .181 


Sr 


A  LIFE-DRAMA. 


SCENE   I. 
An  Antique  Room  ;  Midnight. 

WALTER, 
Reading  from  a  paper  on  which  he  has  been  writing. 

As  a  wild  maiden,  with  love-drinking  eyes, 

Sees  in  sweet  dreams  a  beaming  Youth  of  Glory, 

And  wakes  to  weep,  and  ever  after  sighs 

For  that  bright  vision  till  her  hair  is  hoary  ; 

Ev'n  so,  alas !  is  my  life's  passion  story. 

For  Poesy  my  heart  and  pulses  beat, 

For  Poesy  my  blood  runs  red  and  fleet, 

As  Moses'  serpent  the  Egyptians'  swallow'd, 

One  passion  eats  the  rest.     My  soul  is  follow' d 


6  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    I. 

By  strong  ambition  to  out-roll  a  lay, 
Whose  melody  will  haunt  the  world  for  aye, 
Charming  it  onward  on  its  golden  way. 

[  Tears  the  paper  and  paces  the  room  with 

disordered  steps. 

Oh,  that  my  heart  was  quiet  as  a  grave 
Asleep  in  moonlight ! 
For,  as  a  torrid  sunset  boils  with  gold 
Up  to  the  zenith,  fierce  within  my  soul 
A  passion  burns  from  basement  to  the  cope. 
Poesy  !  Poesy  !    I'd  give  to  thee, 
As  passionately,  my  rich  laden  years, 
My  bubble  pleasures,  and  my  awful  joys, 
As  Hero  gave  her  trembling  sighs  to  find 
Delicious  death  on  wet  Lcander's  lip. 
Bare,  bald,  and  tawdry,  as  a  fingered  moth, 
Is  my  poor  life,  but  with  tme  smile  thou  canst 
Clothe  me  with  kingdoms.     Wilt  thou  smile  on  me  ? 
Wilt  bid  me  die  for  thee  ?     O  fair  and  cold  ! 
As  well  may  some  wild  maiden  waste  her  love 
Upon  the  calm  front  of  a  marble  Jove. 
I  cannot  draw  regard  of  thy  great  eyes. 
I  love  thee,  Poesy !     Thou  art  a  rock, 
I,  a  weak  wave,  would  break  on  thee  and  die. 
There  is  a  deadlier  pang  than  that  which  beads 
With  chilly  death-drops  the  o'er-tortured  brow, 
When  one  has  a  big  heart  and  feeble  hands, — 


SCENE    I.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  7 

A  heart  to  hew  his  name  out  upon  time 

As  on  a  rock,  then  in  imraortalness 

To  stand  on  time  as  on  a  pedestal ; 

When  hearts  beat  to  this  tune,  and  hands  are  weak, 

We  find  our  aspirations  quenched  in  tears, 

The  tears  of  impotence,  and  self-contempt 

That  loathsome  weed,  up-springing  in  the  heart, 

Like  nightshade  'mong  the  ruins  of  a  shrine  ; 

I  am  so  cursed,  and  wear  within  my  soul 

A  pang  as  fierce  as  Dives,  drowsed  with  wine, 

Lipping  his  leman  in  luxurious  dreams ; 

Waked  by  a  fiend  in  hell ! 

'Tis  not  for  me,  ye  Heavens !  'tis  not  for  me 

To  fling  a  Poem,  like  a  comet,  out, 

Far-splcndoring  the  sleepy  realms  of  night. 

I  cannot  give  men  glimpses  so  divine, 

As  when,  upon  a  racking  night,  the  wind 

Draws  the  pale  curtains  of  the  vapory  clouds, 

And  shows  those  wonderful,  mysterious  voids, 

Throbbing  with  stars  like  pulses.  —  Naught  for  me 

But  to  creep  quietly  into  my  grave  ; 

Or  calm  and  tame  the  swelling  of  my  heart 

With  this  foul  lie,  painted  as  sweet  as  truth. 

That  l  great  and  small,  weakness  and  strength,  are 

naught, 

Tlmt  each  thing  being  equal  in  its  sphere, 
The  May-night  glow-worm  with  its  emerald  lamp 


8  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    I. 

Is  worthy  as  the  mighty  moon  that  drowns 

Continents  in  her  white  and  silent  light.' 

This  —  this  were  easy  to  believe,  were  I 

The  planet  that  doth  nightly  wash  the  earth's 

Fair  sides  with  moonlight ;  not  the  shining  worm, 

But  as  I  am  —  beaten,  and  foiled,  and  shamed, 

The  arrow  of  my  soul  which  I  had  shot 

To  bring  clown  Fame,  dissolved  like  shaft  of  mist, 

This  painted  falsehood,  this  most  damned  lie, 

Freezes  me  like  a  fiendish  human  face, 

Its  hateful  features  gathered  in  a  sneer. 

Oh,  let  me  rend  this  breathing  tent  of  flesh ; 

Uncoop  the  soul  —  fool,  fool,  'twere  still  the  same, 

'Tis  the  deep  soul  that's  touched,  it  bears  the  wound  ; 

And  memory  doth  stick  in  't  like  a  knife, 

Keeping  it  wide  for  ever.  [A  long  pause. 

I  am  fain 
To  feed  upon  the  beauty  of  the  moon ! 

[Opens  the  casement. 

Sorrowful  moon  !  seeming  so  drowned  in  woe, 
A  queen,  whom  some  grand  battle-day  has  left 
Unkingdomed  and  a  widow,  while  the  stars, 
Thy  handmaidens,  are  standing  back  in  awe, 
Gazing  in  silence  on  thy  mighty  grief ! 
All  men  have  loved  thee  for  thy  beauty,  moon ! 
Adam  has  turned  from  Eve's  fair  face  to  thine, 
And  drank  tby  beauty  with  his  serene  eyes. 


SCENE    I.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  9 

Anthony  once,  when  seated  with  his  queen, 
Worth  all  the  East,  a  moment  gazed  at  thee  : 
She  struck  him  on  the  check  with  jealous  hand, 
And  chiding  said,  — '  Now,  by  my  Egypt's  gods, 
That  pale  and  squeamish  beauty  of  the  night 
Has  had  thine  eyes  too  long;  thine  eyes  are  mine  ! 
Alack  !  there 's  sorrow  in  my  Anthony's  face  ! 
Dost  think  of  Rome  ?     I  '11  make  thee,  with  a  kiss, 
Richer  than  Caesar !     Come,  I'll  crown  thy  lips.' 

[Another  pause. 

How  tenderly  the  moon  doth  fill  the  night ! 
Not  like  the  passion  that  doth  fill  my  soul ; 
It  burns  within  me  like  an  Indian  sun. 
A  star  is  trembling  on  the  horizon's  verge, 
That  star  shall  grow  and  broaden  on  the  night, 
Until  it  hangs  divine  and  beautiful 
In  the  proud  zenith  — 
Might  1  so  broaden  on  the  skies  of  fame ! 

0  Fame  !  Fame  !  Fame  !  next  grandest  word  to  God  ! 

1  seek  the  look  of  Fame  !     Poor  fool  —  so  tries 
Some  lonely  wanderer  'mong  the  desert  sands 
By  shouts  to  gain  the  notice  of  the  Sphynx, 
Staring  right  on  with  calm  eternal  eyes. 


10 


SCENE    II. 

A  Forest.     WALTER  sleeping  beneath  a  tree. 

Enter  LADY  with  a  fawn. 
t 

LADY. 

HALT  !  Flora,  halt !     This  race 
Hast  danced  my  ringlets  alt  about  my  brows, 
And  brought  my  cheeks  to  bloom.     Here  will  I  rest 
And  weave  a  garland  for  thy  dappled  neck. 

[  Weaves  Jlowers 

I  look,  sweet  Flora,  in  thine  innocent  eyes, 
And  see  in  them  a  meaning  and  a  glee 
Fitting  this  universal  summer  joy  : 
Each  leaf  upon  the  trees  doth  shake  with  joy, 
With  joy  the  white  clouds  navigate  the  blue, 
And,  on  his  painted  wings,  the  butterfly, 
Most  splendid  masker  in  this  carnival, 
Floats  through  the  air  in  joy !     Better  for  man, 
Were  he  and  Nature  more  familiar  friends ! 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  11 

His  part  is  worst  that  touches  this  base  world. 
Although  the  ocean's  inmost  heart  be  pure, 
Yet  the  salt  fringe  that  daily  licks  the  shore 
Is  gross  with  sand.     On,  my  sweet  Flora,  on ! 

[Rises  and  approaches  WALTER. 
Ha !  what  is  this  ?     A  bright  and  wandered  youth, 
Thick  in  the  light  of  his  own  beauty,  sleeps 
Like  young  Apollo,  in  his  golden  curls ! 
At  the  oak-roots  I've  seen  full  many  a  flower, 
But  never  one  so  fair.     A  lovely  youth, 
With  dainty  cheeks  and  ringlets  like  a  girl, 
And  slumber-parted  lips  'twere  sweet  to  kiss! 
Ye  envious  lids !     I  fain  would  seee  his  eyes  ! 
Jewels  so  richly  cased  as  those  of  his 
Must  be  a  sight.     So,  here's  a  well-worn  book 
From  which  he  drinks  such  joy  as  doth  a  pale 
And  dim-eyed  worker,  who  escapes,  in  Spring, 
The  thousand-streeted  and  smoke-smothered  town, 
And  treads  awhile  the  breezy  hills  of  health. 

[LADY  opens  the  look,  a  slip  of  paper  falls 
out,  she  reads.      . 

The  fierce  exulting  worlds,  the  motes  in  rays, 

The  churlish  thistles,  scented  briars, 
The  wind-swept  blue-bells  on  the  sunny  braes, 

Down  to  the  central  fires, 


12  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

Exist  alike  in  Love.     Love  is  a  sea, 

Filling  all  the  abysses  dim 
Of  lornest  space,  in  whose  deeps  regally 

Suns  and  their  bright  broods  swim. 


This  mighty  sea  of  Love,  with  wondrous  tides, 

Is  sternly  just  to  sun  and  grain  ; 
'T  is  laving  at  this  moment  Saturn's  sides,  — 

'Tis  in  my  blood  and  brain. 

All  things  have  something  more  than  barren  use  ; 

There  is  a  scent  upon  the  briar, 
A  tremulous  splendor  in  the  autumn  dews, 

Cold  morns  are  fringed  with  fire ; 

» 
The  clodded  earth  goes  up  in  sweet-breathed  flower's ; 

In  music  dies  poor  human  speech, 
And  into  beauty  blow  those  hearts  of  ours, 
When  Love  is  born  in  each. 


Life  is  transfigured  in  the  soft  and  tender 

Light  of  Love,  as  a  volume  dun 
Of  rolling  smoke  becomes  a  wreathed  splendor 

In  the  declining  sun. 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  13 

Driven  from  cities  by  his  restless  moods, 

In  incense  glooms  and  secret  nooks, 
A  miser  o'er  his  gold  —  the  lover  broods 

O'er  vague  words,  earnest  looks. 


Oft  is  he  startled  on  the  sweetest  lip  ; 

Across  his  midnight  sea  of  mind 
A  Thought  comes  streaming,  like  a  blazing  ship 

Upon  a  mighty  wind, 

A  Terror  and  a  Glory  !     Shocked  with  light, 
His  boundless  being  glares  aghast ; 

Then  slowly  settles  down  the  wonted  night, 
All  desolate  and  vast. 


Daisies  are  white  upon  the  churchyard  sod, 
Sweet  tears,  the  clouds  lean  down  and  give. 

This  wrorld  is  very  lovely.     O  my  God, 
I  thank  Thee  that  I  live  ! 


Ringed  with  his  flaming  guards  of  many  kinds, 
The  proud  Sun  stoops  his  golden  head, 

Gray  Eve  sobs  crazed  with  grief;  to  her  the  winds 
Shriek  out,  c  The  Day  is  dead.' 


14  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II, 

I  gave  this  beggar  Day  no  alms,  this  Night 
Has  seen  nor  work  accomplished,  planned, 

Yet  this  poor  Day  shall  soon  in  memory's  light 
A  summer  rainbow  stand  ! 


There  is  no  evil  in  this  present  strife ; 

From  th'  shivering  Seal's  low  moans, 
Up  through  the  shining  tiers  and  rants  of  life, 

To  stars  upon  their  thrones, 

The  seeming  ills  are  Loves  in  dim  disguise  ; 

Dark  moral  knots,  that  pose  the  seer, 
If  we  are  lovers,  in  our  wider  eyes 

Shall  hang,  like  dew-drops  clear. 

Ye  are  my  menials,  ye  thick  crowding  years ! 

Ha  !  yet  with  a  triumphant  shout 
My  spirit  shall  take  captive  all  the  spheres, 

And  wring  their  riches  out. 


God  !  what  a  glorious  future  gleams  on  me  ; 

With  nobler  senses,  nobler  peers, 
I'll  wing  me  through  Creation  like  a  bee, 

And  taste  the  gleaming  spheres ! 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  15 

While  some  are  trembling  o'er  the  poison-cup, 
While  some  grow  lean  with  care,  some  weep, 

In  this  luxurious  faith  I'll  wrap  me  up, 
As  in  a  robe,  and  sleep. 

Oh,  'tis  a  sleeping  Poet !  and  his  verse 
Sings  like  the  syren-isles.     An  opulent  Soul 
Dropt  in  my  path  like  a  great  cup  of  gold, 
All  rich  and  rough  with  stories  of  the  gods ! 
Methink  all  poets  should  be  gentle,  fair, 
And  ever  young,  and  ever  beautiful, 
I'd  have  all  poets  to  be  like  to  this, — 
Gold-haired  and  rosy-lipped,  to  sing  of  Love. 
Love  !  Love  !     Old  song  that  Poet  ever  chanteth, 
Of  which  the  listening  world  is  never  weary. 
Soul  is  a  moon,  Love  is  its  loveliest  phase. 
Alas  !  to  me  this  Love  will  never  come 
Till  summer  days  shall  visit  dark  December. 
Woe's  me !  'tis  very  sad,  but  'tis  my  doom 
To  hide  a  ghastly  grief  within  my  heart ; 
And  then  to  coin  my  lying  cheek  to  smiles, 
Sure,  smiles  become  a  victim  garlanded ! 
Hist !  he  asvakes 

WALTER  (awakening). 

Fair  lady,  in  my  dream 
Methought  I  was  a  weak  and  lonely  bird, 


16  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

In  search  of  summer,  wandered  on  the  sea, 
Toiling  through  mists,  drenched  by  the  arrowy  rain, 
Struck  by  the  heartless  winds :  at  last,  methought 
I  came  upon  an  isle  in  whose  sweet  air 
1  dried  my  feathers,  smoothed  my  ruffled  breast, 
And  skimmed  delight  from  off  the  waving  woods. 
Thy  coming,  lady,'  reads  this  dream  of  mine  : 
I  am  the  swallow,  thou  the  summer  land. 

LADY. 

Sweet,  sweet  is  flattery  to  mortal  ears, 

And,  if  I  drink  thy  praise  too  greedily, 

My  fault  I'll  match  with  grosser  instances. 

Do  not  the  royal  souls  that  van  the  world 

Hunger  for  praises  ?     Does  not  the  hero  burn 

To  blow  his  triumphs  in  the  trumpet's  mouth  ? 

And  do  not  poets'  brows  throb  feverous 

Till  they  are  cooled  with  laurels?     Therefore,  sir, 

If  such  dote  more  on  praise  than  all  the  wealth 

Of  precious-wombed  earth  and  pearled  mains, 

Blame  not  the  cheeks  of  simple  maidenhood. 

Fair  sir,  I  am  the  empress  of  this  wood  ! 

The  courtier  oaks  bow  in  proud  homages, 

And  shake  down  o'er  my  path  their  golden  leaves. 

Queen  am  I  of  this  green  and  summer  realm. 

This  wood  I  've  entered  oft  when  all  in  sheen 

The  princely  Morning  walks  o'er  diamond  dews. 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  17 

And  still  have  lingered,  till  the  vain  young  Night 
Trembles  o'er  her  own  beauty  in  the  sea. 

WALTER. 

And  as  thou  passest  some  mid-forest  glade, 
The  simple  woodman  stands  amazed,  as  if 
An  angel  flashed  by  on  his  gorgeous  wings. 

LADY. 

I  am  thine  empress.     Who  and  what  art  thou  ? 
Art  thou  Sir  Bookworm  ?     Haunter  of  old  tomes, 
Sitting  the  silent  term  of  stars  to  watch 
Your  own  thought  passing  into  beauty,  like 
An  earnest  mother  watching  the  first  smile 
Dawning  upon  her  sleeping  infant's  face, 
Until  she  cannot  see  it  for  her  tears  ? 
And  when  the  lark,  the  laureate  of  the  sun, 
Doth  climb  the  east,  eager  to  celebrate 
His  monarch's  crowning,  goeth  pale  to  bed, — 
Art  thou  such  denizen  of  book-world,  pray  ? 

WALTER. 

Books  written  when  the  soul  is  at  spring-tide, 
When  it  is  laden  like  a  groaning  sky 
Before  a  thunder-storm,  are  power  and  gladness, 
And  majesty  and  beauty.     They  seize  the  reader 
As  tempests  seize  a  ship,  and  bear  him  on 


18  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

With  a  wild  joy.     Some  books  are  drench  vd  sands, 
On  which  a  great  soul's  wealth  lies  all  in  heaps, 
Like  a  wrecked  argosy.     What  power  in  books  ! 
They  mingle  gloom  and  splendor,  as  I've  oft, 
In  thund'rous  sunsets,  seen  the  thunder-piles 
Seamed  with  dull  fire  and  fiercest  glory-rents. 
They  awe  me  to  my  knees,  as  if  I  stood 
In  presence  of  a  king.     They  give  me  tears  ; 
Such  glorious  tears  as  Eve's  fair  daughters  shed, 
When  first  they  clasped  a  Son  of  God,  all  bright 
With  burning  plumes  and  splendors  of  the  sky, 
In  zoning  heaven  of  their  milky  arms. 
How  few  read  books  aright !     Most  souls  are  shut 
By  sense  from  grandeur,  as  a  man  who  snores 
Night-capped  and  wrapt  in  blankets  to  the  nose, 
Is  shut  out  from  the  night,  which,  like  a  sea, 
Breaketh  for  ever  on  a  strand  of  stars. 
Lady,  in  book- world  have  I  ever  dwelt, 
This  book  has  domed  my  being  like  a  sky. 

LADY. 
And  who  was  its  creator  ? 

WALTER. 

He  was  one 

Who  could  not  help  it,  for  it  was  his  nature 
To  blossom  into  song,  as  't  is  a  tree's 
To  leaf  itself  in  April. 


SCENE    II.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  19 

LADY. 

Did  he  love  ? 

WALTER. 

Ay;  and  he  suffered. —  His  was  not  that  love 

That  comes  on  men  with  their  beards.     His  soul  was 

rich  ; 

And  this  his  book  unveils  it,  as  the  night 
Her  panting  wealth  of  stars.     The  world  was  cold, 
And  he  went  down  like  a  lone  ship  at  sea ; 
And  now  the  fame  that  scorned  him  while  he  lived 

Waits  on  him  like  a  menial. 

When  the  dark  dumb  Earth 

Lay  on  her  back  and  watched  the  shining  stars, 

A  soul  from  its  warm  body  shuddered  out 

To  the  dim  air  and  trembled  with  the  cold  ; 

Through  the  waste  air  it  passed  as  swift  and  still, 

As  a  dream  passes  through  the  lands  of  sleep, 

Till  at  the  very  gates  of  spirit-world 

'Twas  asked  by  a  most  worn  and  earnest  shape 

That  seemed  to  tremble  on  the  coming  word, 

About  an  orphan  Poem,  and  if  yet 

A  Name  was  heard  on  earth. 


LADY. 

'T  is  very  sad, 


20  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II, 

And  doth  remind  me  of  an  old,  low  strain 

I  used  to  sing  in  lap  of  summers  dead, 

When  I  was  but  a  child,  and  when  we  played 

Like  April  sunbeams  'mong  the  meadow-flowers  ; 

Or  romped  i'  the  dews  with  weak  complaining  lambs  ; 

Or  sat  in  circles  on  the  primrose  knolls, 

Striving  with  eager  and  palm-shaded  eyes, 

'Mid  shouts  and  silver  laughs,  who  first  should  catch 

The  lark,  a  singing  speck,  go  up  the  blue. 

I'll  sing  it  to  thee ;  'tis  a  song  of  One  — 

(An  image  slept  within  his  soul's  caress, 

Like  a  sweet  thought  within  a  Poet's  heart 

Ere  it  is  born  in  joy  and  golden  words)  — 

Of  One  whose  naked  soul  stood  clad  in  love, 

Like  a  pale  martyr  in  his  shirt  of  fire. 

I  Ml  sing  it  to  thee.  [LADY  sings. 

In  winter  when  the  dismal  rain 

Comes  down  in  slanting  lines, 
And  Wind,  the  grand  old  harper,  smote 

His  thunder-harp  of  pines. 

A  Poet  sat  in  his  antique  room, 

His  lamp  the  valley  kinged, 
'Neath  dry  crusts  of  dead  tongues  he  found 

Truth,  fresh  and  golden-winged. 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  21 

When  violets  came  and  woods  were  green, 

And  larks  did  skyward  dart, 
A  Love  alit  and  white  did  sit, 

Like  an  angel  on  his  heart. 


From  his  heart  he  unclasped  his  love 

Amid  the  trembling  trees, 
And  sent  it  to  the  Lady  Blanche 

On  winged  poesies. 

The  Lady  Blanche  was  saintly  fair, 
Nor  proud,  but  meek  her  look  ; 

In  her  hazel  eyes  her  thoughts  lay  clear 
As  pebbles  in  a  brook. 

Her  father's  veins  ran  noble  blood, 

His  hall  rose  'mid  the  trees  ; 
Like  a  sunbeam  she  came  and  went 

'Mong  the  white  cottages. 

The  peasants  thanked  her  with  their  tears, 
When  food  and  clothes  were  given,  — 

'  This  is  a  joy,'  the  Lady  said, 
4  Saints  cannot  taste  in  Heaven  ! ' 


22  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

They  met  —  the  Poet  told  his  love, 
His  hopes,  despairs,  his  pains,  — 

The  Lady  with  her  calm  eyes  mocked 
The  tumult  in  his  veins. 


He  passed  away  —  a  fierce  song  leapt 
From  cloud  of  his  despair, 

As  lightning,  like  a  bright,  wild  beast 
Leaps  from  its  thunder-lair. 

He  poured  his  frenzy  forth  in  song,  — 
Bright  heir  of  tears  and  praises  ! 

Now  resteth  that  unquiet  heart 
Beneath  the  quiet  daisies. 

The  world  is  old,  —  Oh  !  very  old,  — 
The  wild  winds  weep  and  rave  ; 

The  world  is  old,  and  gray,  and  cold, 
Let  it  drop  into  its  grave  ! 

Our  cars,  Sir  Bookworm,  hunger  for  thy  song. 

WALTER. 
I  have  a  strain  of  a  departed  bard  ; 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  23 

One  who  was  born  too  late  into  this  world. 

A  mighty  day  was  past,  and  he  saw  nought 

But  ebbing  sunset  and  the  rising  stars,  — 

Still  o'er  him  rose  those  melancholy  stars ! 

Unknown  his  childhood,  save  that  he  was  born 

'Along  woodland  waters  full  of  silver  breaks  ; 

That  he  grew  up  'mong  primroses  moon-pale 

In  the  hearts  of  purple  hills;  that  he  o'er-ran 

Green  meadows  golden  in  the  level  sun, 

A  bright-haired  child  ;  and  that,  when  these  he  left 

To  dwell  within  a  monstrous  city's  heart, 

The  trees  were  gazing  up  into  the  sky, 

Their  bare  arms  stretched  in  prayer  for  the  snows. 

When  first  we  met,  his  book  was  six  months  old, 

And  eagerly  his  name  was  buzzed  abroad ; 

Praises  fell  thick  on  him.     Men  said,  '  This  Dawn 

Will  widen  to  a  clear  and  boundless  Day ; 

And  when  it  ripens  to  a  sumptuous  west 

With  a  great  sunset  'twill  be  closed  and  crowned.' 

Lady  !  he  was  as  far  'bove  common  men 

As  a  sun-steed,  wild-eyed  and  meteor-maned, 

Neighing  the  reeling  stars,  is  'bove  a  hack 

With  sluggish  veins  of  mud.     More  tremulous 

Than  the  soft  star  that  in  the  azure  East 

Trembles  with  pity  o'er  bright  bleeding  day, 

Was  his  frail  soul ;  I  dwelt  with  him  for  years ; 

1  was  to  him  but  Labrador  to  Ind  ; 


24  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

His  pearls  were  plentier  than  my  pebble-stones. 

He  was  the  sun,  I  was  that  squab  —  the  earth, 

And  basked  me  in  his  light  until  he  drew 

Flowers  from  my  barren  sides.     Oh  !  he  was  rich, 

And  I  rejoiced  upon  his  shore  of  pearls, 

A  weak  enamored  sea.     Once  did  he  say, 

4  My  Friend  !  a  Poet  must  ere  long  arise, 

And  with  a  regal  song  sun-crown  this  age, 

As  a  saint's  head  is  with  a  halo  crown' d ;  — 

One,  who  shall  hallow  Poetry  to  God 

And  to  its  own  high  use,  for  Poetry  is 

The  grandest  chariot  wherein  king-thoughts  ride  :  — 

One,  who  shall  fervent  grasp  the  sword  of  song 

As  a  stern  swordsman  grasps  his  keenest  blade, 

To  find  the  quickest  passage  to  the  heart. 

A  mighty  Poet  whom  this  age  shall  choose 

To  be  its  spokesman  to  all  coming  times. 

In  the  ripe  full-blown  season  of  his  soul, 

He  shall  go  forward  in  his  spirit's  strength, 

And  grapple  with  the  questions  of  all  time, 

And  wring  from  them  their  meanings.      As  King  Saul 

Called  up  the  buried  prophet  from  his  grave 

To  speak  his  doom,  so  shall  this  Poet-king 

Call  up  the  dead  Past  from  its  awful  grave 

To  tell  him  of  our  future.     As  the  air 

Doth  sphere  the  world,  so  shall  his  heart  of  love  — 

Loving  mankind,  not  peoples.     As  the  lake 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  25 

Reflects  the  flower,  tree,  rock,  and  bending  heaven, 

Shall  he  reflect  our  great  humanity  ; 

And  as  the  young  Spring  breathes  with  living  breath 

On  a  dead  branch,  till  it  sprouts  fragrantly 

Green  leaves  and  sunny  flowers,  shall  he  breathe  life 

Through  every  theme  he  touch,  making  all  Beauty 

And  Poetry  for  ever  like  the  stars.' 

His  words  set  me  on  fire  ;  I  cried  aloud, 

1  Gods  !  what  a  portion  to  forerun  this  Soul ! ' 

He  grasped  my  hand,  —  I  looked  upon  his  face, — 

A  thought  struck  all  the  blood  into  his  cheeks, 

Like  a  strong  buffet.     His  great  flashing  eyes 

Burned  on  mine  own.     He  said,  4  A  grim  old  king, 

Whose  blood  leapt  madly  when  the  trumpets  brayed 

To  joyous  battle  'mid  a  storm  of  steeds, 

Won  a  rich  kingdom  on  a  battle-day ; 

But  in  the  sunset  he  was  ebbing  fast, 

Ringed  by  his  weeping  lords.     His  left  hand  held 

His  white  steed,  to  the  belly  splashed  with  blood, 

That  seemed  to  mourn  him  with  its  drooping  head, 

His  right,  his  broken  brand  :  and  in  his  ear 

His  old  victorious  banners  flap  the  winds. 

He  called  his  faithful  herald  to  his  side,  — 

"  Go  !  tell  the  dead  I  come  !  "     With  a  proud  smile, 

The  warrior  with  a  stab  let  out  his  soul. 

Which  fled  and  shrieked  through  all  the  other  world, 

"  Ye  dead  !  My  master  comes  !  "  And  there  was  pause 

Till  the  great  shade  should  enter.     Like  that  herald, 


26  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

Walter,  I  'd  rush  across  this  waiting  world 
And  cry,  "  He  comes  !  "  '     Lady,  wilt  hear  the  song  ? 

[Sing*. 

In  the  street,  the  tide  of  being,  how  it  surges,  how  it 

rolls ! 
God  !    what  base   ignoble   faces !    God  !    what  bodies 

wanting  souls, 
'Mid  this  stream  of  human  being,  banked  by  houses 

tall  and  grim, 

Pale  I  stand  this  shining  morrow  with  a  pant  for  wood 
lands  dim, 
To  hear  the  soft  and  whispering  rain,  feel  the  dewy 

cool  of  leaves, 
Watch   the   lightnings   dart   like    swallows    round   the 

brooding  thunder-eaves, 
To  lose  the  sense  of  whirling  streets,  'mong  breezy 

crests  of  hills, 
Skies  of  larks,  and  hazy  landscapes,  with  fine  threads 

of  silver  rills, 
Stand  with  forehead  bathed  in  sunset  on  a  mountain's 

summer  crown, 
And  look  up  and  watch  the  shadow  of  the  great  night 

coming  down  ; 
One  great  life;  in  my  myriad  veins,  in  leaves,  in  flowers, 

in  cloudy  cars, 
Blowing,  underfoot,  in  clover;  beating,   overhead,    in 

stars  ! 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  27 

Once  I   saw  a  blissful  harvest-moon,  but  not  through 

forest-leaves ; 
'Twas  not  whitening  o'er  a  country,  costly  with  the 

piled  sheaves ; 
Rose  not  o'er  the  am'rous  ocean,  trembling  round  his 

happy  isles ; 
It  came  circling  large  and  queenly  o'er  yon  roof  of 

smoky  tiles, 
And  I  saw  it  with  such  feeling,  joy  in  blood,  in  heart, 

in  brain, 
I  would  give  to  call  the  affluence  of  that  moment  back 

again, 

Europe,  with  her  cities,  rivers,  hills  of  prey,  sheep- 
sprinkled  downs,  — 
Ay,  an  hundred  sheaves  of  sceptres !      Ay,  a  planet's 

gathered  crowns ! 
For  with    that    resplendent   harvest-moon,  my   inmost 

thoughts  were  shared 

By  a  bright  and  shining  maiden,  hazel-eyed  and  golden- 
haired  ; 
One  blest  hour  we  sat  together  in  a  lone  and  silent 

place, 
O'er  us,  starry  tears  were  trembling  on  the  mighty 

midnight's  face. 
Gradual  crept  my  arm  around  her,  'gainst  my  shoulder 

came  her  head, 
And  I  could  but  draw  her  closer,  whilst  I  tremulously 

said, 


28  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

4  Passion  as  it  runs  grows  purer,  loses  every  tinge  of 

clay, 
As  from   Dawn  all  red  and    turbid  flows  the   white 

transparent  Day, 
And  in  mingled  lives  of  lovers,  the  array  of  human 

ills 
Breaks  their  gentle  course  to  music,  as  the  stones  break 

summer  rills.' 
'  You  should  give  the   world,'  she   murmured,   '  such 

delicious  thoughts  as  these.' 
'They   are    fit   to   line    portmanteaus;'     'Nay,'    she 

whispered,  i  Memories.' 
And  thereat  she  looked  upon  me  with  a  smile  so  full 

of  grace, 
All  my  blood  was  in  a  moment  glowing  in  my  ardent 

face  ! 
Half-blind,    I  looked    up    to    the    host    of   palpitating 

stars, 
'Gainst  my  sides  my  heart  was    leaping,  like  a    lion 

'gainst  his  bars, 
For  a  thought  was  born  within  me,  and  I  said  within 

my  mind, 
'  I  will   risk  all  in  this  moment,  I  will  cither  lose  or 

find.' 
4  Dost  thou  love  me  ? '  then  I  whispered  ;  for  a  minute 

after  this, 
I  sat  and  trembled  in  great  blackness  —  On  my  lips  I 

felt  a  kiss  ;  — 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  29 

Than  a  rose-leaf's  touch  'twas  lighter, —  on  her  face 

her  hands  she  prest, 
And  a  heaven  of  tears  and  blushes  was  deep  buried  in 

my  breast. 
1  could  make  her  faith,  my  passion,  a  wide  mark  for 

scorn  and  sneers  ; 

I  could  laugh  a  hollow  laughter  but  for  these  hot  burst 
ing  tears, 
In  the  strong  hand  of  my  frenzy,  laws  and  statutes 

snap  like  reeds, 

And  furious  as  a  wounded  bull  I  tore  at  all  the  creeds ; 
I  rushed  into  the  desert,  where  I  stood  with  hopeless 

eyes, 
Glaring  on  vast  desolations,  barren  sands,  and  empty 

skies  ! 
Soon  a  trembling  naked  figure,  to  the  earth  my  face 

was  bowed, 
For  the  curse  of  God  gloomed  o'er  me  like  a  bursting 

thunder-cloud. 
Rolled  away  that  fearful  darkness,  past  my  weakness, 

past  my  grief, 
Washed  with  bitter  tears  I  sat  full  in  the  sunshine  of 

belief. 
Weary  eyes  are  looking  eastward,  whence  the  golden 

sun  upsprings, 
Cry  the  young  and  fervid  spirits,  clad  with  ardor  as 

with  wings, 


30  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

4  Life  and  Soul  make  wretched  jangling,  they  should 

mingle  to  one  Sire 

As  the  lovely  voices  mingle  in  a  holy  temple  choir. 
O !  those  souls  of  ours,  my  brothers !  prisoned  now  in 

mortal  bars, 
Have  been  richcd  by  growth  and  travel,  by  the  round 

of  all  the  stars. 
Soul,   alas !    is   unregarded ;    Brothers !    it  is   closely 

shut : 
All  unknown  as  royal  Alfred  in  the  Saxon  neatherd's 

hut, 

In  the  Dark  house  of  the  Body,  cooking  victuals,  light 
ing  fires, 
Swelters  on  the  starry  stranger,  to  our  nature's  base 

desires. 
From    its  lips   is't   any    marvel,   that   no   revelations 

come  ? 
We  have  wronged  it;  we  do  wrong  it  —  'tis  majestically 

dumb ! 
God !  our  souls  are  aproned  waiters !  God !  our  souls 

are  hired  slaves : 
Let  us  hide  from  Life,  my  Brothers!  let  .us  hide  us  in 

our  graves. 
O  !  why  stain  our  holy  childhoods  ?     Why  sell  all  for 

drinks  and  meats  ? 
Why  degrade,  like  those  old  mansions,  standing  in  our 

pauper  streets, 


SCENE    II.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  31 

Lodgings  once  of  kings  and  nobles,  silken  stirs  and 

trumpet's  din, 
Now,  where  crouch  'mong  rags  and  fever,  shapes  of 

squalor  and  of  sin  ?  ' 
Like  a  mist  this  wail  surrounds  me  ;  Brothers,  hush ! 

the  Lord  Christ's  hands 
Ev'n  now  arc  stretched  in  blessing  o'er  the  sea  and 

o'er  the  lands. 
Sit  not  like  a  mourner,  Brother !  by  the  grave  of  that 

dear  Past, 
Throw  the   Present!  'tis  thy  servant  only  when  'tis 

overcast,  — 
Give  battle  to  the  leagued  world,  if  thou'rt    worthy, 

truly  brave, 
Thou  shalt  make  the  hardest  circumstance  a  helper  or 

a  slave, 
As  when  thunder  wraps  the  setting  sun,  he  struggles, 

glows  with  ire, 
Rifts  the  gloom  with  golden  furrows,  with  a  hundred 

bursts  of  fire, 
Melts  the  black  and  thund'rous  masses  to  a  sphere  of 

rosy  light, 
Then  on  edge  of  glowing  heaven  smiles  in  triumph  on 

the  night. 
Lo !  the  song  of  Earth  —  a  maniac 's  on  a  black  and 

dreary  road  — 
Rises  up,  and  swells,  and  grandeurs,  to  the  loud  tri 

umphal  ode  — 


3'2  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

Earth  casts  off  a  slough  of  darkness,  an  eclipse  of  hell 

and  sin, 

In  each  cycle  of  her  being,  as  an  adder  casts  her  skin  ; 
Lo!  I   see  long  blissful   ages,  when   these   mammon 

days  are  done, 
Stretching  like  a  golden  ev'ning  forward  to  the  setting 

sun. 

He  sat  one  winter  'neath  a  linden  tree 

In  my  bare  orchard :  '  See,  my  friend,'  he  said, 

'  The  stars  among  the  branches  hang  like  fruit, 

So,  hopes  were  thick  within  me.     When  I  'm  gone 

The  world  will  like  a  valuator  sit 

Upon  my  soul,  and  say,  "  I  was  a  cloud 

That  caught  its  glory  from  a  sunken  sun, 

And  gradual  burn'd  into  its  native  gray."1 

On  an  October  eve,  't  was  his  last  wish 

To  see  again  the  mists  and  golden  woods ; 

Upon  his  death-bed  he  was  lifted  up, 

The  slumberous  sun  within  the  lazy  west 

With  their  last  gladness  filled  his  dying  eyes. 

No  sooner  was  he  hence  than  critic-worms 

Were  swarming  on  the  body  of  his  fame, 

And  thus  they  judged  the  dead  :   *  This  Poet  was 

An  April  tree  whose  vermeil-loaded  boughs 

Promised  to  Autumn  apples  juiced  and  red, 

But  never  came  to  fruit.'     '  He  is  to  us 

But  a  rich  odor,  —  a  faint  music-swell.' 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  3 

'  Poet  he  was  not  in  the  larger  sense  ; 

He  could  write  pearls,  but  he  could  never  write 

A  Poem  round  and  perfect  as  a  star.' 

'  Politic  i'  faith.     His  most  judicious  act 

Was  dying  when  he  did ;  the  next  five  years 

Had  fingered  all  the  fine  dust  from  his  wings, 

And  left  him  poor  as  we.     He  died  —  'twas  shrewd  ! 

And  came  with  all  his  youth  and  unblown  hopes 

On  the  world's  heart,  and  touched  it  into  tears.' 

LADY. 
Would'st  thou,  too,  be  a  poet  ? 

WALTER. 

Lady !  ay ! 

A  passion  has  grown  up  to  be  a  King, 
Ruling  my  being  with  as  fierce  a  sway 
As  the  mad  sun  the  prostrate  desert  sands, 
And  it  is  that. 

LADY. 

Hast  some  great  cherished  theme  ? 

WALTER. 

Lovely  in  God's  eyes,  where,  in  barren  space, 
Like  a  rich  jewel  hangs  His  universe, 
Unwrinklcd  as  a  dew-drop,  and  as  fair, 


34  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

In  my  poor  eyes,  my  loved  and  chosen  theme 
Is  lovely  as  the  universe  in  His. 

LADY. 

Wilt  write  of  some  young  wanton  of  an  isle 
Whose  beauty  so  enamored  hath  the  sea, 
It  clasps  it  ever  in  its  summer  arms 
And  wastes  itself  away  on  it  in  kisses  ? 
Or  the  hot  Indes,  on  whose  teeming  plains 
The  seasons  four  knit  in  one  flowery  band 
Are  dancing  ever  ?     Or  some  older  realm  ? 

WALTER. 

I  will  begin  in  the  oldest ;  far  in  God. 
When  all  the  ages,  and  all  suns,  and  worlds, 
And  souls  of  men  and  angels,  lay  in  Him 
Like  unborn  forests  in  an  acorn-cup. 

LADY. 
And  how  wilt  thou  begin  it  ? 

WALTER. 

With  old  words ! 

With  the  soliloquy  with  which  God  broke 
The  silence  of  the  dead  eternities, 
At  which  most  ancient  words,  O  beautiful ! 
With  showery  tresses  like  a  child  from  sleep, 


SCENE    II.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  35 

Uprose  the  splendid-mooned  and  jewelled  night, — 
The  loveliest  born  of  God. 


LADY. 

Then  your  first  chorus 
Must  be  the  shoutings  of  the  morning  stars ! 
What  martial  music  is  to  marching  men 
Should  Song  be  to  Humanity.     In  song 
The  infant  ages  born  and  swathed  are. 
A  beauteous  menial  to  our  wants  divine, 
A  shape  celestial  tending  the  dark  earth 
With  light  and  silver  service  like  the  moon, 
Ts  Poesy;  ever  remember  this  — 
How  wilt  thou  end  it  ? 

WALTER. 

With  God  and  Silence  ! 
When  the  great  universe  subsides  in  God, 
Ev'n  as  a  moment's  foam  subsides  again 
Upon  the  wave  that  bears  it. 

LADY. 

Why,  thy  plan 

Is  wide  and  daring  as  a  comet's  spoom  ! 
And  doubtless  'twill  contain  the  tale  of  earth 
By  way  of  episode  or  anecdote. 
This  precious  world  which  one  pale  marred  face 


36  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    II. 

Dropt  tears  upon.     This  base  and  beggar  world 
To  your  rich  soul !     O  !  Marc  Anthony, 
With  a  fine  scorn  did  toss  your  world  away 
For  Cleopatra's  lips  !  —  so  rich,  so  poor. 


37 


SCENE   III. 


Antique  Room.     WALTER  pacing  up  and  down. 

WALTER. 

THOU  day  beyond  to-morrow  !  though  my  life 
Should  cease  in  thee,  I M  dash  aside  the  hours 
That  invervene  to  bring  thee  quicklier  here. 
Again  to  meet  her  in  the  windy  woods ! 
When  last  we  met  she  was  as  marble,  calm  : 
I,  with  thick-beating  heart  and  sight  grown  dim, 
And  leaping  pulses  and  loud-ringing  ears, 
And  tell-tale  blood  that  rushed  into  my  face, 
And  blabbed  the  love  secreted  in  my  heart. 
She  must  have  understood  that  crimson  speech, 
And  yet  she  frowned  not.     No,  she  never  frowned. 
I  think  that  I  am  worthy  to  be  loved. 
Oh,  could  I  lift  my  heart  into  her  sight, 
As  an  old  mountain  lifts  its  martyr's  cairn 
Into  the  pure  sight  of  the  holy  heavens ! 


38  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    III. 

Would  she  but  love  me,  I  would  live  for  her ! 

Were  she  plain  Night,  I 'd  pack  her  with  my  stars. 

My  spirit,  Poesy,  would  be  her  slave, 

'T  would  rifle  for  her  ocean's  secret  hoards, 

And  make   her  rough  with  pearls.     If  Death's  pale 

realms 

Contained  a  gem  out-lustring  all  the  world, 
I  would  adventure  there,  and  bring  it  her. 

My  inmost  being  dwells  upon  her  words, 

'  Wilt  trim  a  verse  for  me  by  this  night  week  ? 

Make  it  as  jubilant  as  marriage  bells  ; 

Or,  if  it  please  you,  make  it  doleful  sad 

As  bells  that  knoll  a  maiden  to  her  grave, 

When  the  spring  earth  is  sweet  in  violets, 

And  it  will  fit  one  heart,  yea,  as  the  cry 

Of  the  lone  plover  fits  a  dismal  death.' 

I'll  write  a  tale  through  which  my  passion  runs, 

Like  honeysuckle  through  a  hedge  of  June. 

A  silent  'isle  on  which  the  love-sick  sea 

Dies  with  faint  kisses  and  a  murmured  joy. 

In  the  clear  blue  the  lark  hangs  like  a  speck, 

And  empties  his  full  heart  of  music-rain 

O'er  sunny  slopes,  where  tender  lambkins  bleat, 

And  new-born  rills  go  laughing  to  the  sea, 

O'er  woods  that  smooth  down  to  the  southern  shore, 


SCENE    III.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  3! 

Waving  in  green,  as  the  young  breezes  blow 
O'er  the  sea  sphere  all  sweet  and  summer  smells. 
Not  of  these  years,  but  by-gone  minstrel  times, 
Of  shepherd-days  in  the  young  world's  sunrise, 
Was  this  warm  clime,  this  quiet  land  of  health, 
By  gentle  pagans  filled,  whose  red  blood  ran 
Healthy  and  cool  as  milk,  —  pure,  simple  men  : 
Ah,  how  unlike  the  swelterers  in  towns ! 
Who  ne'er  can  glad  their  eyes  upon  the  green 
Sunshine-swathed  earth  ;  nor  hear  the  singing  rills, 
Nor  feel  the  breezes  in  their  lifted  hair. 

A  lovely  youth  in  manhood's  very  edge, 

Lived  'mong  these  shepherds  and  their  quiet  downs  ; 

Tall  and  blue-eyed,  and  bright  in  golden  hair, 

With  half-shut  dreamy  eyes,  sweet  earnest  eyes 

That  seemed  unoccupied  with  outward  things, 

Feeding  on  something  richer  !     Strangely,  oft, 

A  wildered  smile  lay  on  his  noble  lips. 

The  sunburnt  shepherds  stared  with  awful  eyes 

As  he  went  past ;  and  timid  girls  upstole, 

With  wondering  looks,  to  gaze  upon  his  face, 

And  on  his  cataract  of  golden  curls, 

Then  lonely  grew,  and  went  into  the  woods 

To  think  sweet  thoughts,  and  marvel  why  they  shook 

With  heart-beat  and  with  tremors  when  he  came, 

And  in  the  night  he  filled  their  dreams  with  joy. 


40  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    III. 

But  there  was  one  among  that  soft-voiced  band 

Who  pined  away  for  love  of  his  sweet  eyes, 

And  died  among  the  roses  of  the  Spring. 

When  Eve  sat  in  the  dew  with  closed  lids, 

Came  gentle  maidens  bearing  forest  flowers 

To  strew  upon  her  green  and  quiet  grave. 

They  soothed  the  dead  with  love-songs  low  and  sweet ; 

Songs  sung  of  old  beneath  the  purple  night, 

Songs  heard  on  earth  with  heart-beat  and  a  blush, 

Songs  heard  in  heaven  by  the  breathless  stars. 

Thought-wrapped,  he  wandered  in  the  breezy  woods 

In  which  the  Summer,  like  a  hermit,  dwelt. 

He  laid  him  down  by  the  old  haunted  springs, 

Up-bubbling  'mid  a  world  of  greenery, 

Shut-eyed,  and  dreaming  of  the  fairest  shapes 

That  roamed  the  woods ;  and  when  the  autumn  nights 

Were  dark  and  moonless,  to  the  level  sands 

He  would  betake  him,  there  to  hear,  o'erawed, 

The  old  Sea  moaning  like  a  monster  pained. 

One  day  he  lay  within  the  pleasant  woods 
On  bed  of  flowers  edging  a  fountain's  brim, 
And  gazed  into  its  heart  as  if  to  count 
The  veined  and  lucid  pebbles  one  by  one, 
Up-shining  richly  through  the  crystal  clear. 
Thus  lay  he  many  hours,  when,  lo !  he  heard 


SCENE    III.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  41 

A  maiden  singing  in  the  woods  alone 

A  sad  and  tender  island  melody, 

Which  made  a  golden  conquest  of  his  soul, 

Bringing  a  sadness  sweeter  than  delight. 

As  nightingale,  embowered  in  vernal  leaves, 

Pants  out  her  gladness  the  luxurious  night, 

The  moon  and  stars  all  hanging  on  her  song, 

She  poured  her  soul  in  music.     When  she  ceased, 

The  charmed  woods  and  breezes  silent  stood 

As  if  all  ear  to  catch  her  voice  again. 

Uprose  the  dreamer  from  his  couch  of  flowers, 

With  awful  expectation  in  his  look, 

And  happy  tears  upon  his  pallid  face, 

With  eager  steps,  as  if  toward  a  heaven, 

He  onward  went,  and,  lo!  he  saw  her  stand, 

Fairer  than  Dian,  in  the  forest  glade. 

His  footsteps  startled  her,  and  quick  she  turned 

Her  face,  —  looks  met  like  swords.     He  clasped  his 

hands, 

And  fell  upon  his  knees ;  the  while  there  broke 
A  sudden  splendor  o'er  his  yearning  face ; 
'T  was  a  pale  prayer  in  its  very  self. 
'  I  know  thee,  lovely  maiden  !'  then  he  cried  ; 
*  I  know  thee,  and  of  thee  I  have  been  told  : 
Been  told  by  all  the  roses  of  the  vale, 
By  hermit  streams,  by  pale  sea-setting  stars, 
And  by  the  roaring  of  the  storm-tost  pines ; 


42  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    III, 

And  I  have  sought  for  thee  upon  the  hills, 

In  dim  sweet  dreams,  on  the  complacent  sea, 

When  breathless  midnight,  with  her  thousand  hearts, 

Beats  to  the  same  love-tune  as  my  own  heart. 

I've  waited  for  thee  many  seasons  through, 

Seen  many  autumns  shed  their  yellow  leaves 

O'er  the  oak-roots,  heard  many  winters  moan 

Through  the  leafless  forests  drearily. 

Now  am  I  joyful,  as  storm-battered  dove 

That  finds  a  perch  in  the  Hesperides, 

For  thou  art  found.     Thou  whom  I  long  have  sought, 

My  other  self!     Our  blood,  our  hearts,  our  souls, 

Shall  henceforth  mingle  in  one  being,  like 

The  married  colors  in  the  bow  of  heaven. 

My  soul  is  like  a  wide  and  empty  fane, 

Sit  thou  in't  like  a  god,  O  maid  divine  ! 

With  worship  and  religion  'twill  be  filled. 

My  soul  is  empty,  lorn,  and  hungiy  space ; 

Leap  thou  into  it  like  a  new-born  star, 

And  'twill  o'erflow  with  splendor  and  with  bliss. 

More  music  !  music  !  music  !  maid  divine  ! 

My  hungry  senses,  like  a  finch's  brood, 

Are  all  a-gape.     O  feed  them,  maid  divine  ! 

Feed,  feed  my  hungry  soul  with  melodies!' 

Thus,  like  a  worshipper  before  a  shrine, 

He  earnest  syllabled,  and,  rising  up, 

He  led  that  lovely  stranger  tenderly 


SCENE    III.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  43 

Through  the  green  forest  toward  the  burning  west. 
He  never,  by  the  maidens  of  the  isle 
Nor  by  the  shepherds,  was  thereafter  seen 
'Mong  sunrise  splendors  on  the  misty  hills, 
Or  stretched  at  noon  by  the  old  haunted  wells 
Or  by  the  level  sands  on  autumn  nights. 

I've  heard  that  maidens  have  been  won  by  song. 
O  Poesy,  fine  sprite  !     I 'd  bless  thee  more 
If  thou  would'st  bring  that  lady's  love  to  me, 
Than  immortality  in  twenty  worlds. 
I'd  rather  win  her  than  God's  youngest  star, 

With  singing  continents  and  seas  of  bliss. 

Thou  day  beyond  to-morrow,  haste  thee  on ! 


44 


SCENE   IV. 


The  Banks  of  a  River  —  WALTER  and  the  LADY. 

LADY. 
THE  stream  of  sunsets  ? 

WALTER. 

'Tis  that  loveliest  stream. 

I've  learned  by  heart  its  sweet  and  devious  course 
By  frequent  tracing,  as  a  lover  learns 
The  features  of  his  best-beloved's  face. 
In  memory  it  runs,  a  shining  thread, 
With  sunsets  strung  upon  it  thick,  like  pearls. 
From  yonder  trees  I've  seen  the  western  sky 
All  washed  with  fire,  while,  in  the  midst,  the  sun 
Beat  like  a  pulse,  welling  at  ev'ry  beat 
A  spreading  wave  of  light.     Where  yonder  church 
Stands  up  to  heaven,  as  if  to  intercede 
For  sinful  hamlets  scattered  at  its  feet, 


SCENE  IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  45 

I  saw  the  dreariest  sight.     The  sun  was  down, 

And  all  the  west  was  paved  with  sullen  fire. 

I  cried,  '  Behold  !  the  barren  beach  of  hell 

At  ebb  of  tide.'     The  ghost  of  one  bright  hour 

Comes  from  its  grave  and  stands  before  me  now. 

'Twas  at  the  close  of  a  long  summer  day, 

As  we  were  sitting  on  yon  grassy  slope, 

The  sunset  hung  before  us  like  a  dream 

That  shakes  a  demon  in  his  fiery  lair ; 

The  clouds  were  standing  round  the  setting  sun 

Like  gaping  caves,  fantastic  pinnacles, 

Citadels  throbbing  in  their  own  fierce  light, 

Tall  spires  that  came  and  went  like  spires  of  flame, 

Cliffs  quivering  with  fire-snow,  and  peaks 

Of  piled  gorgeousness,  and  rocks  of  fire 

A-tilt  and  poised,  bare  beaches,  crimson  seas, 

All  these  were  huddled  in  that  dreadful  west, 

All  shook  and  trembled  in  unsteadfast  light, 

And  from  the  centre  blazed  the  angry  sun, 

Stern  as  the  unlashed  eye  of  God  a-glare 

O'er  evening  city  with  its  boom  of  sin. 

I  do  remember,  as  we  journeyed  home, 

(That  dreadful  sunset  burnt  into  our  brains,) 

With  what  a  soothing  came  the  naked  moon. 

She,  like  a  swimmer  who  has  found  his  ground, 

Came  rippling  up  a  silver  strand  of  cloud, 

And  plunged  from  the  other  side  into  the  night. 


4G  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE  IV. 

I  and  that  friend,  the  feeder  of  my  soul, 

Did  wander  up  and  down  these  banks  for  years, 

Talking  of  blessed  hopes  and  holy  faiths, 

How  sin  and  weeping  all  should  pass  away 

In  the  calm  sunshine  of  the  earth's  old  age. 

Breezes  are  blowing  in  old  Chaucer's  verse, 

'Twas  here  we  drank  them.     Here  for  hours  we  hung 

O'er  the  fine  pants  and  trembles  of  a  line. 

Oft,  standing  on  a  hill's  green  head,  we  felt 

Breezes  of  love,  and  joy,  and  melody, 

Blow  through  us,  as  the  winds  blow  through  the  sky. 

Oft  with  our  souls  in  our  eyes  all  day  we  fed 

On  summer  landscapes,  silver-veined  with  streams, 

O'er  which  the  air  hung  silent  in  its  joy ; 

With  a  great  city  lying  in  its  smoke, 

A  monster  sleeping  in  its  own  thick  breath  ; 

And  surgy  plains  of  wheat,  and  ancient  woods, 

In  the  calm  evenings  cawed  by  clouds  of  rooks, 

Acres  of  moss,  and  long  black  strips  of  firs, 

And  sweet  cots  dropt  in  green,  where  children  played 

To  us  unheard,  till,  gradual,  all  was  lost 

In  distance-haze  to  a  blue  rim  of  hills, 

Upon  whose  heads  came  down  the  closing  sky. 

Beneath  the  crescent  moon  on  autumn  nights 

We  paced  its  banks  with  overflowing  hearts, 

Discoursing  long  of  great  thought-wealthy  souls, 

And  with  what  spendthrift  hands  they  scatter  wide 


SCENE  IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  47 

Their  spirit  wealth,  making  mankind  their  debtors : 
Afiluent  spirits,  dropt  from  the  teeming  stars, 
Who  come  before  their  time,  are  starved,  and  die, 
Like  swallows  that  arrive  before  the  summer. 
Or  haply  talked  of  dearer  personal  themes, 
Blind  guesses  at  each  other's  after  fate  ; 
Feeling  our  leaping  hearts,  we  marvelled  oft 
How  they  should  be  unleashed,  and  have  free  course 
To  stretch  and  strain  far  down  the  coming  time  — 
But  in  our  guesses  never  was  the  grave. 

LADY. 

The  tale  !  the  tale  !  the  tale  !     As  empty  halls 
Gape  for  a  coming  pageant,  my  fond  ears 
To  take  its  music  are  all  eager-wide. 

WALTER. 

Within  yori  grove  of  beeches  is  a  well, 
I  've  made  a  vow  to  read  it  only  there. 

LADY. 

As  I  suppose,  by  way  of  recompense, 
For  quenching  thirst  on  some  hot  summer  day. 

WALTER. 

Memories  grow  around  it  thick  as  flowers. 
That  well  is  loved  and  haunted  by  a  star. 


48  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE  IV. 

The  live-long  day  her  clear  and  patient  eye 

Is  open  on  the  soft  and  bending  blue, 

Just  where  she  lost  her  lover  in  the  morn. 

But  with  the  night  the  star  creeps  o'er  the  trees 

And  smiles  upon  her,  and  some  happy  hours 

She  holds  his  image  in  her  crystal  heart. 

Beside  that  well  I  read  the  mighty  Bard 

Who  clad  himself  with  beauty,  genius,  wealth, 

Then  flung  himself  on  his  own  passion-pyre 

And  was  consumed.     Beside  that  lucid  well 

The  whitest  lilies  grow  for  many  miles. 

'Tis  said  that,  'mong  the  flowers  of  perished  years, 

A  prince  woo'd  here  a  lady  of  the  land, 

And  when  with  faltering  lips  he  told  his  love, 

Into  her  proud  face  leapt  her  prouder  blood  ; 

She  struck  him  blind  with  scorn,  then  with  an  air 

As  if  she  wore  the  crowns  of  all  the  world, 

She  swept  right  on  and  left  him  in  the  dew. 

Again  he  sat  at  even  with  his  love, 

He  sent  a  song  into  her  haughty  ears 

To  plead  for  him  ;  —  she  listened,  still  he  sang. 

Tears,  drawn  by  music,  were  upon  her  face, 

Till  on  its  trembling  close,  to  which  she  clung 

Like  dying  wretch  to  life,  with  a  low  cry 

She  flung  her  arms  around  him,  told  her  love, 

And  how  she  long  had  loved  him,  but  had  kept 

It  in  her  heart,  like  one  who  has  a  gem 


SCENE    IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  49 

And  hoards  it  up  in  some  most  secret  place, 
While  he  who  owns  it  seeks  it  and  with  tears. 
Won  by  the  sweet  omnipotence  of  song ! 
He  gave  her  lands  ;   she  paid  him  with  herself. 
Brow-bound  with  gold  she  sat  the  fairest  thing 
Within  his  sea- washed  shores. 

LADY. 

Most  fit  reward ! 
A  poet's  love  should  ever  thus  be  paid. 

WALTER. 

Ha  !     Dost  thou  think  so  ? 

LADY. 

Yes.     The  tale  !  the  tale  ! 

WALTER. 

On  balcony,  all  summer  roofed  with  vines, 

A  lady  half-reclined  amid  the  light, 

Golden  and  green,  soft-showering  through  the  leaves, 

Silent  she  sat  one-half  the  silent  noon; 

At  last  she  sank  luxurious  in  her  couch, 

Purple  and  golden-fringed,  like  the  sun's, 

And  stretched  her  white  arms  on  the  warmed  air, 

As  if  to  take  some  object  wherewithal 

To  ease  the  empty  aching  of  her  heart. 


50  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IV. 

4  Oh,  what  a  weariness  of  life  is  mine  ! ' 

The  lady  said,  'soothing  myself  to  sleep 

With  my  own  lute,  floating  about  the  lake 

To  feed  my  swans,  with  nought  to  stir  my  blood, 

Unless  I  scold  my  women  thrice  a-day. 

Unwrought  yet  in  the  tapestry  of  my  life 

Are  princely  suitors  kneeling  evermore. 

I,  in  my  beauty,  standing  in  the  midst, 

Touching  them,  careless,  with  most  stately  eyes. 

Oh,  I  could  love,  methinks,  with  all  my  soul ! 

But  I  see  nought  to  love  ;  nought  save  some  score 

Of  lisping,  curPd  gallants,  with  words  i'  their  mouths 

Soft  as  their  mother's  milk.     Oh,  empty  heart ! 

Oh,  .palace,  rich  and  purple-chambered  ! 

When  will  thy  lord  come  home  ? 

'  When  the  blind  morn  was  groping  'bout  the  east, 

The  Earl  went  trooping  forth  to  chase  the  stag ; 

I  trust  he  hath  not,  to  the  sport  he  loves 

Better  than  ale-bouts,  ta'en  my  cub  of  Ind. 

My  sweetest  plaything.     He  is  bright  and  wild  , 

As  is  a  gleaming  panther  of  the  hills,  — 

Lovely  as  lightning,  beautiful  as  wild ! 

His  sports  and  laughters  are  with  fierceness  edged  ; 

There's  something  in  his  beauty,  all  untamed, 

As  I  were  toying  with  a  naked  sword, 

Which  starts  within  my  veins  the  blood  of  earls. 


SCENE    IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  51 

I  fain  would  have  the  service  of  his  voice 

To  kill  with  music  this  most  languid  noon.' 

She  rang  a  silver  bell  :  with  downcast  eyes 

The  tawny  nursling  of  the  Indian  sun 

Stood  at  her  feet.     c  I  pr'ythee,  Leopard,  sing  ; 

Voice  me  some  stormy  song  of  sword  and  lance, 

Which,  rushing  upward  from  a  hero's  heart, 

Straight  rose  upon  a  hundred  leaguered  hills, 

Ragged  and  wild  as  pyramid  of  flame. 

Or,  better,  sing  some  hungry  lay  of  love, 

Like  that  you  sang  me  on  the  eve  you  told 

How  poor  our  English  to  your  Indian  darks  ; 

Shaken  from  od'rous  hills,  what  tender  smells 

Pass  like  fine  pulses  through  the  mellow  nights ; 

The  purple  ether  that  cmbathes  the  moon,  — 

Your  large  round  moon,  more  beautiful  than  ours ; 

Your  showers  of  stars,  each  hanging  luminous, 

Like  golden  dew-drops  in  the  Indian  air.' 

'  I  know  a  song,  born  in  the  heart  of  love, 

Its  sweetest  sweet,  steeped  ere  the  close  in  tears. 

'Twas  sung  into  the  cold  ears  of  the  stars 

Beside  the  murmured  rnargent  of  the  sea. 

'T  is  of  two  lovers,  matched  like  cymbals  fine, 

Who,  in  a  moment  of  luxurious  blood, 

Their  pale  lips  trembling  in  the  kiss  of  gods, 

Made  their  lives  wine-cups,  and  then  drank  them  off, 

And  died  with  beings  full-blown  like  a  rose ; 


52  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IV. 

A  mighty  heart-pant  bore  them  like  a  wave, 

And  flung  them,  flowers,  upon  the  next  world's  strand. 

Night  the  solemn,  night  the  starry, 
'Mong  the  oak-trees  old  and  gnany ; 

By  the  sea-shore  and  the  ships, 
'Neath  the  stars  I  sat  with  Clari ; 
Her  silken  bodice  was  unlaced, 
My  arm  was  trembling  round  her  waist, 

I  plucked  the  joys  upon  her  lips ; 
Joys,  though  plucked,  still  grow  again  ! 

Canst  thou  say  the  same,  old  Night  ? 
Ha  !  thy  life  is  vain. 

Night  the  solemn,  night  the  starry, 
Oh,. that  death  would  let  me  tarry 

Like  a  dewdrop  on  a  flower, 
Even  on  those  lips  of  Clari ! 
Our  beings  mellow,  then  they  fall, 
Like  o'er-ripe  peachqs  from  the  wall ; 

We  ripen,  drop,  and  all  is  o'er ; 
On  the  cold  grave  weeps  the  rain  ; 

I  weep  it  should  be  so,  old  Night. 
Ah  !  my  tears  are  vain. 

Night  the  solemn,  night  the  starry, 
Say,  alas !  that  years  should  harry 


SCENE    IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA. 

Gloss  from  life  and  joys  from  lips, 
Love-lustres  from  the  eyes  of  Clari ! 
Moon  !  that  walkcst  the  blue  deep, 
Like  naked  maiden  in  her  sleep  ; 

Star!  whose  pallid  splendor  dips 
In  the  ghost-waves  of  the  main. 

Oh,  ye  hear  me  not !  old  Night, 
My  tears  and  cries  are  vain.' 

He  ceased  to  sing  ;  queenly  the  lady  lay, 
One  white  hand  hidden  in  a  golden  shoal 
Of  ringlets,  reeling  down  upon  her  couch, 
And  heaving  on  the  heavings  of  her  breast, 
The  while  the  thoughts  rose  in  her  eyes  like  stars, 
Rising  and  setting  in  the  blue  of  night. 
'  I  had  a  cousin  once,'  the  lady  said, 
1  Who  brooding  sat,  a  melancholy  owl, 
Among  the  twilight  branches  of  his  thoughts. 
He  was  a  rhymer,  and  great  knights  he  spoiled, 
And  damsels  saved,  and  giants  slew  in  verse. 
He  died  in  youth ;  his  heart  held  a  dead  hope, 
As  holds  the  wretched  west  the  sunset's  corpse, 
Spit  on,  insulted  by  the  brutal  rains. 
He  went  to  his  grave  nor  told  what  man  he  was. 
He  was  unlanguaged,  like  the  earnest  sea, 
Which  strives  to  gain  an  utterance  on  the  shore, 
But  ne'er  can  shape  unto  the  listening  hills, 


54  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IV. 

The  lore  it  gathered  in  its  awful  age  ; 
The  crime  for  which  'tis  lashed  by  cruel  winds 
To  shrieks,  mad  spoomings  to  the  frighted  stars; 
The  thought,  pain,  grief,  within  its  laboring  heart, 
To  fledge  with  music,  wings  of  heavy  noon, 
I'll  sing  some  verses  that  he  sent  to  me :  — 

Where  the  west  has  sunset-bloomed, 
Where  a  hero's  heart  is  tombed, 
Where  a  thunder-cloud  has  gloomed, 

Seen,  becomes  a  part  of  me. 
Flowers  and  rills  live  sunnily 
In  gardens  of  my  memory. 

Through  its  walks  and  leafy  lanes, 
Float  fair  shapes  'mong  sunlight  rains  ; 
Blood  is  running  in  their  veins. 

One,  a  queenly  maiden  fair, 
Sweepeth  past  me  with  an  air, 
Kings  might  kneel  beneath  her  stare. 

Round  her  heart  a  rose-bud  free, 
Reeled  I,  like  a  drunken  bee ; 
Alas  !  it  would  not  ope  to  me. 


SCENE    IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  55 

One  comes  shining  like  a  saint, 

But  her  face  I  cannot  paint, 

For  mine  eyes  and  blood  grow  faint. 

Eyes  are  dimmed  as  by  a  tear, 
Sounds  are  ringing  in  mine  ear, 
I  feel  only,  she  is  here, 

That  she  laugheth  where  she  stands, 
That  she  mockcth  with  her  hands, 
I  am  bound  in  tighter  bands. 

Laid  'mong  faintest  blooms  is  one, 
Singing  in  the  setting  sun, 
And  her  song  is  never  done. 

She  was  born  'mong  water-mills  ; 
She  grew  up  'mong  flowers  and  rills, 
In  the  hearts  of  distant  hills. 

There,  into  her  being  stole 
Nature,  and  embued  the  whole, 
And  illumed  her  face  and  soul. 

She  grew  fairer  than  her  peers ; 
Still  her  gentle  forehead  wears 
Holy  lights  of  infant  years. 


56  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IV. 

Her  blue  eyes,  so  mild  and  meek, 

She  uplifteth,  when  I  speak, 

Lo  !  the  blushes  mount  her  cheek. 

Weary  I  of  pride  and  jest, 
In  this  rich  heart  I  would  rest, 
Purple  and  love-lined  nest. 

4  My  dazzling  panther  of  the  smoking  hills, 
When  the  hot  sun  hath  touched  their  loads  of  dew, 
What  strange  eyes  had  my  cousin,  who  could  thus 
(For  you  must  know  I  am  the  first  o'  the  three 
That  pace  the  garden  of  his  memory) 
Prefer  before  the  daughter  of  great  earls, 
This  giglet,  shining  in  her  golden  hair, 
Haunting  him  like  a  gleam  or  happy  thought ; 
Or  her,  the  last,  up  whose  cheeks  blushes  went 
As  thick  and  frequent  as  the  streamers  pass 
Up  cold  December  nights.     True,  she  might  be 
A  dainty  partner  in  the  game  of  lips, 
Swect'ning  the  honeymoon  ;  but  what,  alas  ! 
When  redhot  youth  cools  down  to  iron  man  ? 
Could  her  white  fingers  close  a  helmet  up, 
And  send  her  lord  unkissed  away  to  field, 
Her  heart  striking  with  his  arm  in  every  blow  ? 
Would  joy  rush  through  her  spirit  like  a  stream, 
When  to  her  lips  he  came  with  victory  back, 


SCENE    IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  57 

Acclaims  and  blessings  on  his  head  like  crowns, 
His  mouthed  wounds  brave  trumpets  in  his  praise, 
Drawing  huge  shoals  of  people  like  the  moon, 
Whose  beauty  draws  the  solemn-noised  seas  ? 
Or  would  his  bright  and  lovely  sanguine-stains 
Scare  all  the  coward  blood  into  her  heart, 
Leaving  her  cheeks  as  pale  as  lily  leaves  ? 
And  at  his  great  step  would  she  quail  and  faint, 
And  pay  his  seeking  arms  with  bloodless  swoon  ? 
My  heart  would  leap  to  greet  such  coming  lord, 
Eager  to  meet  him,  tiptoe  on  my  lips.' 

'  This  cousin  loved  the  Lady  Constance  ;  did 
The  Lady  Constance  love  her  cousin,  too  .*' 

'Ay,  as  a  cousin.     He  woo'd  me,  Leopard  mine, 
I  speared  him  with  a  jest ;  for  there  are  men 
Whose  sinews  stiffen  'gainst  a  knitted  brow, 
Yet  are  unthreaded,  loosened  by  a  sneer, 
And  their  resolve  doth  pass  as  doth  a  wave : 
Of  this  sort  was  my  cousin.     I  saw  him  once, 
Adown  a  pleached  alley,  in  the  sun, 
Two  gorgeous  peacocks  pecking  from  his  hand ; 
At  sight  of  me  he  first  turned  red,  then  pale. 
I  laughed  and  said,  "  I  saw  a  misery  perched 
P  the  melancholy  corners  of  his  mouth, 
Life  griffins  on  each  side  my  father's  gates." 


58  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IV. 

And,  "  That  by  sighing  he  would  win  my  heart, 

Somewhere  as  soon  as  he  could  hug  the  earth, 

And  crack  its  golden  ribs."     A  week  the  boy 

Lived  in  his  sorrow,  like  a  cataract 

Unseen,  yet  sounding  through  its  shrouding  mists. 

Strange  likings,  too,  this  cousin  had  of  mine. 

A  frail  cloud  trailing  o'er  the  midnight  moon, 

Was  lovelier  sight  than  wounded  boar  a-foam 

Among  the  yelping  dogs.     He'd  lie  in  fields, 

And  through  his  fingers  watch  the  changing  clouds, 

Those  playful  fancies  of  the  mighty  sky, 

With  deeper  interest  than  a  lady's  face. 

He  had  no  heart  to  grasp  the  fleeting  hour, 

Which,  like  a  thief,  steals  by  with  silent  foot, 

In  his  closed  hand  the  jewel  of  a  life. 

He  scarce   would  match  his  throned  and  kingdom'd 

earth 
Against  a  dew-drop. 

'  Who'd  leap  in  the  chariot  of  my  heart, 
And  seize  the  reins,  and  wind  it  to  his  will, 
Must  be  of  other  stuff,  my  cub  of  Ind  ; 
White  honor  shall  be  like  a  plaything  to  him, 
Borne  lightly,  a  pet  falcon  on  his  wrist; 
One  who  can  feel  the  very  pulse  o'  the  time, 
Instant  to  act,  to  plunge  into  the  strife, 
And  with  a  strong  arm  hold  the  rearing  world. 


<M  i:.\K  IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  59 

In  costly  chambers  hushed  with  carpets  rich, 

Swept  by  proud  beauties  in  their  whistling  silks, 

Mars'  plait  shall  smooth  to  sweetness  on  his  brow  ; 

His  mighty  front  whose  steel  flung  back  the  sun, 

When  horsed  for  battle,  shall  bend  above  a  hand 

Laid  like  a  lily  in  his  tawny  palm, 

With  such  a  grace  as  takes  the  gazer's  eye. 

His  voice  that  shivered  the  mad  trumpet's  blare, — 

A  new-raised  standard  to  the  reeling  field, — 

Shall  know  to  tremble  at  a  lady's  ear, 

To  charm  her  blood  with  the  fine  touch  of  praise, 

And  as  she  listens  —  steal  away  the  heart. 

If  the  good  gods  do  grant  me  such  a  man, 

More  would  I  dote  upon  his  trenched  brows, 

His  coal-black  hair,  proud  eyes,  and  scornful  lips, 

Than  on  a  gallant,  curled  like  Absalom, 

Cheeked  like  Apollo,  with  his  luted  voice. 

4  Canst  tell  me,  Sir  Dark-eyes, 
Is 't  true  what  these  strange-thoughted  poets  say, 
That  hearts  are  tangled  in  a  golden  smile  ? 
That  brave  cheeks  pale  before  a  queenly  brow  ? 
That  mail'd  knees  bend  beneath  a  lighted  eye  ? 
That  trickling  tears  are  deadlier  than  swords  ? 
That  with  our  full-mooned  beauty  we  can  slave 
Spirits  that  walk  time,  like  the  travelling  sun, 
With  sunset  glories  girt  around  his  loins  ? 


60  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE  IV. 

That  love  can  thrive  upon  such  dainty  food 

As  sweet  words,  showering  from  a  rosy  lip, 

As  sighs,  and  smiles,  and  tears,  and  kisses  warm  ? ' 

The  dark  Page  lifted  up  his  Indian  eyes 

To  that  bright  face,  and  saw  it  all  a-smile  ; 

And  then  half  grave,  half  jestingly,  he  said, — 

'  The  devil  fisheth  best  for  souls  of  men 

When  his  hook  is  baited  with  a  lovely  limb ; 

Love  lights  upon  the  heart,  and  straight  we  feel 

More  worlds  of  wealth  gleam  in  an  upturned  eye, 

Than  in  the  rich  heart  of  the  miser  sea. 

Beauty  hath  made  our  greatest  manhoods  weak. 

There  have  been  men  who  chafed,  leapt  on  their  times, 

And  reined  them  in  as  gallants  rein  their  steeds 

To  curvetings,  to  show  their  sweep  of  limb ; 

Yet  love  hath  on  their  broad  brows  written  "  fool." 

Sages,  with  passions  held  in  leash  like  hounds; 

Grave  Doctors,  tilting  with  a  lance  of  light 

In  lists  of  argument,  have  knelt  and  sighed 

Most  plethoric  sighs,  and  been  but  very  men  ; 

Stern  hearts,  close  barred  against  a  wanton  world, 

Have  had  their  gates  burst  open  by  a  kiss. 

Why  there  was  one  who  might  have  topped  all  men, 

Who  bartered  joyously  for  a  single  smile, 

This  empired  planet  with  its  load  of  crowns, 

And  thought  himself  enriched.     If  ye  arc  fair, 

Mankind  will  crowd  around  you,  thick  as  when 


SCENE  IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  61 

The  full-faced  moon  sits  silver  on  the  sea, 
The  eager  waves  lift  up  their  gleaming  heads, 
Each  shouldering  for  her  smile.' 

The  lady  dowered  him  with  her  richest  look, 

Her  arch  head  half  aside,  her  liquid  eyes, 

From  'neath  their  dim  lids  drooping  slumberous, 

Stood  full  on  his,  and  called  the  wild  blood  up 

All  in  a  tumult  to  his  sun-kissed  cheek, 

As  if  it  wished  to  see  her  beauty  too  — 

Then  asked  in  dulcet  tones,  4  Dost  think  me  fair  ? ' 

4  Oh,  thou  art  fairer  than  an  Indian  morn, 

Seated  in  her  sheen  palace  of  the  east. 

Thy  faintest  smile  out-prices  the  swelled  wombs 

Of  fleets,  rich  glutted,  toiling  wearily 

To  vomit  all  their  wealth  on  English  strands. 

The  whiteness  of  this  hand  should  ne'er  receive 

A  poorer  greeting  than  the  kiss  of  kings ; 

And  on  thy  happy  lips  doth  sit  a  joy, 

Fuller  than  any  gathered  by  the  gods, 

In  all  the  rich  range  of  their  golden  heaven.' 

'  Now,  by  my  mother's  white  enskied  soul ! ' 

The  lady  cried,  'twixt  laugh  and  blush  the  while, 

*  I'll  swear  thou'st  been  in  love,  my  Indian  sweet. 

Thy  spirit  on  another  breaks  in  joy, 

Like  the  pleased  sea  on  a  white-breasted  shore  — 

A  shore  that  wears  on  her  alluring  brows 


62  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE  IV. 

Rare  shells,  far  brought,  the  love-gifts  of  the  sea, 
That  blush' d  a  tell-tale.     Now,  I  swear  by  all 
The  well-washed  jewels  strewn  on  fathom  sands, 
That  thou  dost  keep  her  looks,  her  words,  her  sighs, 
Her  laughs,  her  tears,  her  angers,  and  her  frowns, 
Balmed  between  memory's  leaves ;  and  ev'ry  day 
Dost  count  them  o'er  and  o'er  in  solitude, 
As  pious  monks  count  o'er  their  rosaries. 
Now,  tell  me,  did  she  give  thee  love  for  love  ? 
Or  didst  thou  make  midnight  thy  confidant, 
Telling  her  all  about  thy  lady's  eyes, 
How  rich  her  cheek,  how  cold  as  death  her  scorn  ? 
My  lustrous  Leopard,  hast  thou  been  in  love  ? ' 
The  Page's  dark  face  flushed  the  hue  of  wine 
In  crystal  goblet  stricken  by  the  sun  ; 
His  soul  stood  like  a  moon  within  his  eyes, 
Suddenly  orbed ;  his  passionate  voice  was  shook 
By  trembles  into  music.  — '  Thee  I  love.' 
4  Thou  ! '  and  the  Lady,  with  a  cruel  laugh, 
(Each  silver  throb  went  through  him  like  a  sword,) 
Flung  herself  back  upon  her  fringed  couch. 
From  which  she  rose  upon  him  like  a  queen, 
She  rose  and  stabbed  him  with  her  angry  eyes. 
1  'Tis  well  my  father  did  not  hear  thee,  boy, 
Or  else  my  pretty  plaything  of  an  hour 
Might  have  gone  sleep  to-night  without  his  head, 
And  I  might  waste  rich  tears  upon  his  fate. 


SCENE    IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  63 

I  would  not  have  my  sweetest  plaything  hurt. 

Dost  think  to  scorch  me  with  those  blazing  eyes, 

My  fierce  and  lightning-blooded  cub  o'  the  sun  ? 

Thy  blood  is  up  in  riot  on  thy  brow, 

P  the  face  o'  its  monarch.     Peace  !     By  my  gray  sire, 

Now  could  I  slay  thee  with  one  look  of  hate, 

One  single  look  !     My  Hero  !  my  Heart-god  ! 

My  Dusk  Hyperion,  Bacchus  of  the  Inds ! 

My  Hercules,  with  chin  as  smooth  as  my  own ! 

I  am  so  sorry  maid,  I  cannot  wear 

This  great  and  proffered  jewel  of  thy  love. 

Thou  art  too  bold,  methinks !     Didst  never  fear 

That  on  my  poor  deserts  thy  love  would  sit 

Like  a  great  diamond  on  a  threadbare  robe  ? 

I  tremble  for't.     I  pr'ythee,  come  to-morrow 

And  I  will  pasture  you  upon  my  lips 

Until  thy  beard  be  grown.     Go  now,  sir,  go.' 

As  thence  she  waved  him  with  arm-sweep  superb, 

The  light  of  scorn  was  cold  within  her  eyes, 

And  withered  his  bloom'd  heart  which,  like  a  rose, 

Had  opened,  timid,  to  the  noon  of  love. 

The  lady  sank  again  into  her  couch, 
Panting  and  flushed  ;  slowly  she  paled  with  thought ; 
When  she  looked  up  the  sun  had  sunk  an  hour, 
And  one  round  star  shook  in  the  orange  west. 
The  lady  sighed,  l  It  was  my  father's  blood 


64  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IV. 

That  bore  me  as  a  red  and  wrathful  stream 

Bears  a  shed  leaf.     I  would  recall  my  words, 

And  yet  I  would  not. 

Into  what  angry  beauty  rushed  his  face  ! 

What  lips  !  what  splendid  eyes  !  'twas  pitiful 

To  see  such  splendors  ebb  in  utter  woe. 

His  eyes  half  won  me.     Tush  !  I  am  a  fool ; 

The  blood  that  purples  in  these  azure  veins, 

Rich'd  with  its  long  course  through  a  hundred  earls, 

Were  fouled  and  mudded  if  I  stooped  to  him. 

My  father  loves  him  for  his  free  wild  wit ; 

I  for  his  beauty  and  sunlighted  eyes. 

To  bring  him  to  my  feet,  to  kiss  my  hand, 

Had  I  it  in  my  gift,  I'd  give  the  world, 

Its  panting  fire-heart,  diamonds,  veins  of  gold ; 

Its  rich  strands,  oceans,  belts  of  cedared  hills, 

Whence  summer  smells  are  struck  by  all  the  winds. 

But  whether  I  might  lance  him  through  the  brain 

With  a  proud  look,  —  or  whether  sternly  kill 

Him  with  a  single  deadly  word  of  scorn, — 

Or  whether  yield  me  up, 

And  sink  all  tears  and  weakness  in  his  arms, 

And  strike  him  blind  with  a  strong  shock  of  joy  — 

Alas !  I  feel  I  could  do  each  and  all. 

I  will  be  kind  when  next  he  brings  me  flowers, 

Plucked  from  the  shining  forehead  of  the  morn, 

Ere  they  have  oped  their  rich  cores  to  the  bee. 


SCENE    IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  65 

His  wild  heart  with  a  ringlet  will  I  chain, 

And  o'er  him  I  will  lean  me  like  a  heaven, 

And  feed  him  with  sweet  looks  and  dew-soft  words, 

And  beauty  that  might  make  a  monarch  pale, 

And  thrill  him  to  the  heart's  core  with  a  touch ; 

Smile  him  to  Paradise  at  close  of  eve, 

To  hang  upon  my  lips  in  silver  dreams.' 

LADY. 

What,  art  thou  done  already  ?     Thy  talc  is  like 
A  day  unsealed  with  sunset.     What  though  dusk  ? 
A  dusky  rod  of  iron  hath  power  to  draw 
The  lightnings  from  their  heaven  to  itself. 
The  richest  wage  you  can  pay  love  —  is  love. 

WALTER. 

Then  close  the  tale  thyself,  I  drop  the  mask ; 
I  am  the  sun-tanned  Page  ;  the  Lady,  thou ! 
I  take  thy  hand,  it  trembles  in  my  grasp ; 
I  look  in  thy  face  and  see  no  frown  in  it. 
O  may  my  spirit  on  hope's  ladder  climb 
From  hungry  nothing  up  to  star-packed  space, 
Thence  strain  on  tip-toe  to  thy  love  beyond  — 
The  only  heaven  I  ask ! 

LADY. 

My  God !  't  is  hard  ! 


66  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IV. 

When  I  was  all  in  leaf  the  frost  winds  came, 

And  now,  when  o'er  me  runs  the  summer's  breath, 

It  waves  but  iron  boughs. 

WALTER. 

What  dost  thou  murmur  ? 

Thy  cheek  burns  mad  as  mine.     O  untouched  lips ! 
I  see  them  as  a  glorious  rebel  sees 
A  crown  within  his  reach.     I  '11  taste  their  bliss 
Although  the  price  be  death 

LADY  (springing  up). 

Walter !  beware  ! 

These  tell-tale  heavens  are  list'ning  earnestly. 
O  Sir !  within  a  month  my  bridal  bells 
Will  make  a  village  glad.     The  fainting  Earth 
Is  bleeding  at  her  million  golden  veins, 
And  by  her  blood  I'm  bought.     The  sun  shall  see 
A  pale  bride  wedded  to  gray  hair,  and  eyes 
Of  cold  and  cruel  blue  ;  and  in  the  spring 
A  grave  with  daisies  on  it. 

WALTER. 

My  world  is  cracked, 

My  little  brilliant  world  !     These  knife-like  words 
Have  left  a  deep  red  gash  across  my  heart. 


SCENE    IV.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  67 

LADY. 

We  twain  have  met  like  ships  upon  the  sea, 

Who  hold  an  hour's  converse,  so  short,  so  sweet ; 

One  little  hour !  and  then,  away  they  speed 

On  lonely  paths,  through  mist,  and  cloud,  and  foam, 

To  meet  no  more.     We  have  been  foolish,  Walter ! 

I  would  to  God  that  I  had  never  known 

This  secret  of  thy  heart,  or  else  had  met  thee 

Years  before  this.     I  bear  a  heavy  doom. 

If  thy  rich  heart  is  like  a  palace  shattered, 

Stand  up  amid  the  ruins  of  thy  heart, 

And  with  a  calm  brow  front  the  solemn  stars. 

[LADY  pauses  ;  WALTER  remains  silent. 
'T  is  four  o'clock  already.     See,  the  moon 
Has  climbed  the  blue  steep  of  the  eastern  sky, 
And  sits  and  tarries  for  the  coming  night. 
So  let  thy  soul  be  up  and  ready  armed, 
In  waiting  till  occasion  comes  like  night ; 
As  night  to  moons,  to  souls  occasion  comes. 
I  am  thine  elder,  WALTER  !  in  the  heart. 
I  read  thy  future  like  an  open  book : 
I  see  thou  shalt  have  grief ;  I  also  see 
Thy  grief's  edge  blunted  on  the  iron  world. 
Be  brave  and  strong  through  all  thy  wrestling  years, 
A  brave  soul  is  a  thing  which  all  things  serve ; 
When  the  great  Corsican  from  Elba  came, 
The  soldiers  sent  to  take  him  bound  or  dead, 


68  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IV. 

Were  struck  to  statues  by  his  kingly  eyes : 

He  spoke  —  they  broke  their  ranks,  they  clasped  his 

knees, 

With  tears  along  a  cheering  road  of  triumph, 
They  bore  him  to  a  throne.     Know  when  to  die ! 
Perform  thy  work  and  straight  return  to  God. 
Be  thou  the  midnight's  white  and  drenching  moon, 
Set,  when  the  midnight  thou  hast  filled  is  past. 
Oh  !  there  are  men  who  linger  on  the  stage 
To  gather  crumbs  and  fragments  of  applause 
When  they  should  sleep  in  earth  —  who,  like  the 

moon, 

Have  brightened  up  some  little  night  of  time, 
And  'stead  of  setting  when  their  light  is  worn, 
Still  linger,  like  its  blank  and  beamless  orb, 
When  daylight  fills  the  sky.     But  I  must  go. 
Nay,  nay,  I  go  alone  !     Yet  one  word  more,  — 
Strive  for  the  Poet's  crown,  but  ne'er  forget 
How  poor  are  fancy's  blooms  to  thoughtful  fruits ; 
That  gold  and  crimson  mornings,  though  more  bright 
Than  soft  blue  days,  are  scarcely  half  their  worth. 
Walter,  farewell !  the  world  shall  hear  of  thee. 

[LADY  still  lingers. 

I  have  a  strange  sweet  thought.     I  do  believe 
1  shall  be  dead  in  spring,  and  that  the  soul 
Which  animates  and  doth  inform  these  limbs 
Will  pass  into  the  daisies  of  my  grave : 


SCENE    IV.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  69 

If  memory  shall  ever  lead  thee  there, 

Through  daisies  I'll  look  up  into  thy  face 

And  feel  a  dim  sweet  joy ;  and  if  they  move, 

As  in  a  little  wind,  thou'lt  know  'tis  I.         [LADY  goes. 

WALTER  (after  a  Jong  interval,  looking  up). 
God !  what  a  light  has  passed  away  fron  earth 
Since  my  last  look  !     How  hideous  this  night ! 
How  beautiful  the  yesterday  that  stood 
Over  me  like  a  rainbow !     I  am  alone. 
The  past  is  past.     I  see  the  future  stretch 
All  dark  and  barren  as  a  rainy  sea. 


70 


SCENE    V. 

WALTER,  wandering  down  a  rural  lane.     Evening 
of  the  same  day  as  Scene  IV. 

WALTER. 

SUNSET  is  burning  like  the  seal  of  God 
Upon  the  close  of  day.     This  veiy  hour 
Night  mounts  her  chariot  in  the  eastern  glooms 
To  chase  the  flying  Sun,  whose  flight  has  left 
Footprints  of  glory  in  the  clouded  west : 
Swift  is  she  haled  by  winged  swimming  steeds, 
Whose  cloudy  manes  are  wet  with  heavy  dews, 
And  dews  are  drizzling  from  her  chariot  wheels. 
Soft  in  her  lap  lies  drowsy-lidded  Sleep, 
Brainful  of  dreams,  as  summer  hive  with  bees ; 
And  round  her  in  the  pale  and  spectral  light 
Flock  bats  and  grisly  owls  on  noiseless  wings. 
The  flying  sun  goes  down  the  burning  west, 
Vast  night  comes  noiseless  up  the  eastern  slope, 
And  so  the  eternal  chase  goes  round  the  world. 


SCENE    V.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  71 

Unrest !  unrest !     The  passion-panting  sea 
Watches  the  unveiled  beauty  of  the  stars 
Like  a  great  hungry  soul.     The  unquiet  clouds 
Break  and  dissolve,  then  gather  in  a  mass, 
And  float  like  mighty  icebergs  through  the  blue. 
Summers,  like  blushes,  sweep  the  face  of  earth; 
Heaven  yearns  in  stars.    Down  comes  the  frantic  rain ; 
We  hear  the  wail  of  the  remorseful  winds 
In  their  strange  penance.     And  this  wretched  orb 
Knows  not  the  taste  of  rest ;  a  maniac  world, 
Homeless  and  sobbing  through  the  deep  she  goes. 

[A  Child  runs  past ;  WALTER  looks  after  her. 
O  thou  bright  thing,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God  ; 
The  motions  of  thy  dancing  limbs  are  swayed 
By  the  unceasing  music  of  thy  being  ! 
Nearer  I  seem  to  God  when  looking  on  thee. 
'Tis  ages  since  he  made  his  youngest  star, 
His  hand  was  on  thee  as  't  were  yesterday. 
Thou  later  Revelation  !     Silver  Stream, 
Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  lake  divine 
Whence  all  things  flow  !     O  bright  and  singing  babe  ! 
What  wilt  thou  be  hereafter?  — Why  should  man 
Perpetuate  this  round  of  misery 
When  he  has  in  his  hand  the  power  to  close  it  ? 
Let  there  be  no  more  warm  hearts,  no  love  on  earth. 

No  Love  !  No  Love  !     Love  bringeth  wretchedness. 

• 

No  holy  marriage.     No  sweet  infant  smiles. 


72  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    V. 

No  mother's  bending  o'er  the  innocent  sleep 
With  unvoiced  prayers  and  with  happy  tears. 
Let  the  whole  race  die  out,  and  with  a  stroke, 
A  master-stroke,  at  once  cheat  Death  and  Hell 
Of  half  of  their  enormous  revenues. 

[WALTER  approaches  a  cottage,  a  peasant  sitting 

at  the  door. 
One  of  my  peasants.     'Tis  a  fair  eve. 

PEASANT. 

Ay,  Master  ! 

How  sweet  the  smell  of  beans  upon  the  air; 
The  wheat  is  earing  fairly.     We  have  reason 
For  thankfulness  to  God. 

WALTER  (looking  upward}. 

We  have  great  reason  ; 
For  He  provides  a  balm  for  all  our  woes. 
He  has  made  Death.     Thrice  blessed  be  His  name  ! 

PEASANT. 

He  has  made  Heaven 

WALTER. 

To  yawn  eternities. 

Did  I  say  Death  ?     O  God  !  there  is  no  death. 
When  our  eyes  close,  we  only  pass  one  stage 


SCENE    V.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  73 

Of  our  eternal  being.     Your  hand,  my  friend  ! 
For  thou  and  I  are  sharers  in  one  doom  : 
We  are  immortals ;  and  must  bear  such  woe 
That,  could  it  light  on  God,  in  agony 
He  'd  pay  down  all  His  stars  to  buy  the  death 
He  doth  deny  us.  —  Dost  thou  wish  to  die  ? 

PEASANT. 

I  trust  in  God  to  live  for  many  years, 
Although  with  a  worn  frame  and  with  a  heart 
Somewhat  the  worse  for  wear. 

WALTER. 

O  fool  !  fool !  fool ! 

These  hands  are  brown  with  toil ;  that  brow  is  seamed, 
Still  you  must  sweat  and  swelter  in  the  sun, 
And  trudge,  with  feet  benumbed,  the  winter's  snow, 
Nor  intermission  have  until  the  end. 
Thou  canst  not  draw  down  fame  upon  thy  head, 
And  yet  would  cling  to  life  !  I'll  not  believe  it ; 
The  faces  of  all  things  belie  their  hearts, 
Each  man 's  as  weary  of  his  life  as  I. 
This  anguished  earth  shines  on  the  moon  —  a  moon. 
The  moon  hides  with  a  cloak  of  tender  li^ht 

t3 

A  scarr'd  heart  fed  upon  by  hungry  fires. 
Black  is  this  world,  but  blacker  is  the  next ; 
There  is  no  rest  for  any  living  soul : 


74  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE   V. 

We  are  immortals  —  and  must  bear  with  us 
Through  all  eternity  this  hateful  being ; 
Restlessly  flitting  from  pure  star  to  star, 
The  memory  of  our  sins,  deceits,  and  crimes, 
Will  eat  into  us  like  a  poisoned  robe. 
Yet  thou  canst  wear  content  upon  thy  face 
And  talk  of  thankfulness !     O  die,  man,  die  ! 
Get  underneath  the  earth  for  very  shame. 

[During  this  speech  the  Child  draws  near ;  at  its 

dose  her  Father  presents  her  to  WALTER. 
Is  this  thy  answer  ?  [Looks  at  her  earnestly. 

O  my  worthy  friend, 
I  lost  a  world  to-day  and  shed  no  tear ; 
Now  I  could  weep  for  thee.     Sweet  sinless  one  ! 
My  heart  is  weak  as  a  great  globe,  all  sea. 
It  finds  no  shore  to  break  on  but  thyself: 
So  let  it  break. 

[He  hides  his  face  in  his  hands,  the  Child 
looking  fearfully  up  at  him. 


75 


SCENE   VI. 


A  Room  in  London.     WALTER  reading  from 
a  manuscript. 

MY  head  is  gray,  my  blood  is  young, 
Red-leaping  in  my  veins, 
The  Spring  doth  stir  my  spirit  yet 
To  seek  the  cloistered  violet, 
The  primrose  in  the  lanes. 
In  heart  I  am  a  very  boy, 
.  Haunting  the  woods,  the  waterfalls, 
The  ivies  on  gray  castle-walls  ; 
Weeping  in  silent  joy 
When  the  broad  sun  goes  down  the  west, 
Or  trembling  o'er  a  sparrow's  nest. 
The  world  might  laugh  were  I  to  tell 
What  most  my  old  age  cheers, — 
Mem'ries  of  stars  and  crescent  moons, 
Of  nutting  strolls  through  autumn  noons, 


76  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VI. 

Rainbows  'mong  April's  tears. 

But  chief,  to  live  that  hour  again, 

When  first  I  stood  on  sea-beach  old, 

First  heard  the  voice,  first  saw  out-rolled 

The  glory  of  the  main. 

Many  rich  draughts  hath  Memory, 

The  Soul's  cup-bearer,  brought  to  me. 

I  saw  a  garden  in  my  strolls, 

A  lovely  place,  I  ween, 

With  rows  of  vermeil-blossomed  trees, 

With  flowers,  with  slumb'rous  haunts  of  bees, 

With  summer-house  of  green. 

A  peacock  perched  upon  a  dial, 

In  the  sun's  face  he  did  unclose 

His  train  superb  with  eyes  and  glows, 

To  dare  the  sun  to  trial. 

A  child  sat  in  a  shady  place, 

A  shower  of  ringlets  round  her  face. 

She  sat  on  shaven  plot  of  grass, 
With  earnest  face  and  weaving 
Lilies  white  and  freaked  pansies 
Into  quaint  delicious  fancies, 
Then,  on  a  sudden  leaving 
Her  floral  wreath,  she  would  upspring 
With  silver  shouts  and  ardent  eyes, 
To  chase  the  yellow  butterflies, 


SCENE    VI.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  77 

Making  the  garden  ring ; 

Then  gravely  pace  the  scented  walk, 

Soothing  her  doll  with  childish  talk. 

And  being,  as  I  said  before, 

An  old  man  who  could  find 

A  boundless  joy  beneath  the  skies, 

And  in  the  light  of  human  eyes, 

And  in  the  blowing  wind, 

There,  daily  were  my  footsteps  turned, 

Through  the  long  spring,  till  autumn's  peaches 

Were  drooping  full-juiced  in  my  reaches. — 

Each  day  my  old  heart  yearned 

To  look  upon  that  child  so  fair, 

That  infant  in  her  golden  hair. 

In  this  green  lovely  world  of  ours 

I  have  had  many  pets, 

Two  are  still  leaping  in  the  sun, 

Three  are  married  ;  that  dearest  one 

Is  'neath  the  violets. 

I  gazed  till  my  heart  grew  wild, 

To  fold  her  in  my  warm  caresses, 

Clasp  her  showers  of  golden  tresses,  — 

Oh,  dreamy-eyed  child  ! 

O  Child  of  Beauty  !  still  thou  art 

A  sunbeam  in  this  lonely  heart. 


78  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VI. 

When  autumn  eves  grew  chill  and  rainy, 

England  left  I  for  the  Ganges ; 

I  couched  'mong  groves  of  cedar-trees, 

Blue  lakes,  and  slumb'rous  palaces, 

Crossed  the  snows  of  mountain-ranges, 

Watched  the  set  of  old  Orion, 

Saw  wild  flocks  and  wild-eyed  shepherds, 

Princes  charioted  by  leopards, 

In  the  desert  met  the  lion, 

The  mad  sun  above  us  glaring,  — 

Child  !  for  thee  I  still  was  caring. 

Home  returned  from  realms  barbaric, 
By  the  shores  of  Loch  Lubnaig, 
A  dear  friend  and  I  were  walking 
('Twas  the  Sabbath),  we  were  talking 
Of  dreams  and  feelings  vague ; 
We  paused  by  a  place  of  graves, 
Scarcely  a  word  was  'twixt  us  given, 
Silent  the  earth,  silent  the  heaven, 
No  murmur  of  the  waves, 
The  awed  Loch  lay  black  and  still 
In  the  black  shadow  of  the  hill. 

We  loosed  the  gate  and  wandered  in, 
When  the  sun  eternal 
Was  sudden  blanched  with  amethyst, 
As  if  a  thick  and  purple  mist 


SCENE    VI.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  79 

Dusked  his  brows  supernal. 

Soon  like  a  god  in  mortal  throes, 

City,  hill,  and  sea,  he  dips 

In  the  death-hues  of  eclipse; 

Mightier  his  anguish  grows, 

Till  he  hung  black,  with  ring  intense 

The  wreck  of  his  magnificence. 

Above  the  earth's  cold  face  he  hung 

With  a  pale  ring  of  glory, 

Like  that  which  cunning  limners  paint 

Around  the  forehead  of  a  saint, 

Or  brow  of  martyr  hoary. 

And  sitting  there  I  could  but  choose, — 

That  blind  and  stricken  sun  aboon, 

Stars  shuddering  through  the  ghostly  noon. 

'Mong  the  thick-falling  dews, — 

To  tell,  with  features  pale  and  wild, 

About  that  Garden  and  that  Child. 

When  moons  had  waxed  and  waned,  I  stood 

Beside  the  garden-gate, 

The  Peacock's  dial  was  o'erthrown, 

The  walks  with  moss  were  overgrown, 

Her  bower  was  desolate. 

Gazing  in  utter  misery 

Upon  that  sad  and  silent  place, 


80  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VI. 

A  woman  came  with  mournful  face, 
And  thus  she  said  to  me, — 
'  Those  trees,  as  they  were  human  souls, 
All  withered  at  the  death-bell  knolls.' 

I  turned  and  asked  her  of  the  child. 

'She  is  gone  hence,'  quoth  she, 

'  To  be  with  Christ  in  Paradise. 

Oh,  sir !  I  stilled  her  infant  cries, 

I  nursed  her  on  my  knee. 

Though  we  were  ever  at  her  side, 

And  saw  life  fading  in  her  cheek, 

She  knew  us  not,  nor  did  she  speak, 

Till  just  before  she  died  ; 

In  the  wild  heart  of  that  eclipse, 

These  words  came  through  her  wasted  lips :  — 

"The  callow  young  were  huddling  in  the  nests, 
The  marigold  was  burning  in  the  marsh, 
Like  a  thing  dipt  in  sunset  when  He  came. 

My  blood  went  up  to  meet  Him  on  my  face, 
Glad  as  a  child  that  hears  its  father's  step, 
And  runs  to  meet  him  at  the  open  porch. 

I  gave  him  all  my  being,  like  a  flower 
That  flings  its  perfume  on  a  vagrant  breeze ; 
A  breeze  that  wanders  on  and  heeds  it  not. 


SCENE    VI.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  81 

His  scorn  is  lying  on  my  heart  like  snow, 
My  eyes  are  weary,  and  I  fain  would  sleep  ; 
The  quietest  sleep  is  underneath  the  ground. 

Arc  ye  around  me,  friends  ?    I  cannot  see, 

I  cannot  hear  the  voices  that  I  love, 

I  lift  my  hands  to  you  from  out  the  night. 

Methought  I  felt  a  tear  upon  my  cheek ; 
Weep  not,  my  mother  !    It  is  time  to  rest, 
And  I  am  very  weary  ;  so,  good  night !  " 

1  My  heart  is  in  the  grave  with  her, 
The  family  went  abroad  ; 
Last  autumn  you  might  see  the  fruits, 
Neglected,  rot  round  the  tree-roots  ; 
This  spring  no  leaves  they  showed. 
I  sometimes  fear  my  brain  is  crost : 
Around  this  place,  the  churchyard  yonder 
All  day,  all  night,  I  silent  wander, 

As  woeful  as  a  ghost 

God  take  me  to  His  gracious  keeping, 
But  this  old  man  is  wildly  weeping  ! ' 

That  night  the  sky  was  heaped  with  clouds  ; 
Through  one  blue  gulf  profound, 
Begirt  with  many  a  cloudy  crag, 
The  moon  came  rushing  like  a  stag, 
C 


82  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VI. 

And  one  star  like  a  hound. 

Wearily  the  chase  I  eyed, 

Wearily  I  saw  the  Dawn's, 

Feet  sheening  o'er  the  dewy  lawns. 

O  God  !  that  I  had  died. 

My  heart's  red  tendrils  were  all  torn, 

And  bleeding  on  that  summer  morn. 

WALTER  (after  a  long  silence,  speaking  abstractedly, 

and  with  frequent  pauses.) 
Twice  hath  the  windy  Summer  made  a  noise 
Of  leaves  o'er  all  the  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  still  that  Child's  face  sleeps  within  my  heart 
Like  a  young  sunbeam  in  a  gloomy  wood, 
Making  the  darkness  smile  —  I  almost  smile 
At  the  strange  fancies  I  have  girt  her  with  ; 
The  garden,  peacock,  and  the  black  eclipse, 
The  still  old  graveyard  'mong  the  dreary  hills, 
Gray  mourners  round  it  —  I  wonder  if  she  's  dead  ? 
She  was  too  fair  for  earth.     Ah  !  she  would  die 
Like  music,  sunbeams,  and  the  pallid  flowers 
That  spring  on  Winter's  corse  —  I  saw  those  graves 
With  Him  who  is  no  more.     They  are  all  dead, 
The  beings  whom  I  loved,  and  I  am  sad, 
But  would  not  change  my  sadness  for  a  life 
Without  a  fissure  running  through  its  joy. 
This  very  hour  a  suit  of  sumptuous  rooms 
O'erflows  with  music  like  a  cup  with  wine  ; 


SCENE    VI.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  83 

Outside,  the  night  is  weeping  like  a  girl 

At  her  seducer's  door,  and  still  the  rooms 

Run  o'er  with  music,  careless  of  her  woe. 

I  would  not  have  my  heart  thus.     This  poor  rhyme 

Is  but  an  adumbration  of  my  life, 

My  misery  tricked  out  in  a  quaint  disguise. 

Oh,  it  did  happen  on  a  summer  day 

When  I  was  playing  unawares  with  flowers, 

That  happiness  shot  past  me  like  a  planet, 

And  I  was  barren  left ! 

Enter  EDWARD  (unobserved). 

EDWARD. 

Walter 's  lovesick  for  Fame  : 
A  haughty  mistress !    How  this  mad  old  world 
Reels  to  its  burning  grave,  shouting  forth  names, 
Like  a  wild  drunkard  at  his  frenzy's  height, 
And  they  who  bear  them  deem  such  shoutings  Fame, 
And,  smiling,  die  content.     What  is  thy  thought  ? 

WALTER. 

'Tis  this,  a  sad  one  :  —  Though  our  beings  point 
Upward,  like  prayers  or  quick  spires  of  flame, 
We  soon  lose  interest  in  this  breathing  world. 
Joy  palls  from  taste  to  taste,  until  we  yawn 
In  Pleasure's  glowing  face.     WThen  first  we  love, 


84  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VI. 

Our  souls  are  clad  with  joy,  as  if  a  tree, 
All  winter-bare,  had  on  a  sudden  leapt 
To  a  full  load  of  blooms  ;  next  time  't  is  naught, 
Great  weariness  doth  feed  upon  the  soul ; 
I  sometimes  think  the  highest-blest  in  heaven 
Will  weary  'mong  its  flowers.     As  for  myself, 
There 's  nothing  new  between  me  and  the  grave 
But  the  cold  feel  of  Death. 

EDWARD. 

Watch  well  thy  heart ! 
It  is,  methinks,  an  eager,  shaking  star, 
Not  a  calm  steady  planet. 

WALTER. 

I  love  thee  much, 

But  thou  art  all  unlike  the  glorious  guide 
Of  my  proud  boyhood.     Oh,  he  led  me  up, 
As  Hesper,  large  and  brilliant,  leads  the  night ! 
Our  pulses  beat  together,  and  our  beings 
Mixed  like  two  voices  in  one  perfect  tune, 
And  his  the  richest  voice.     He  loved  all  things, 
From  God  to  foam-bells  dancing  down  a  stream, 
With  a  most  equal  love.     Thou  mock'st  at  much  ; 
And  he  who  sneers  at  any  living  hope 
Or  aspiration  of  a  human  heart, 
Is  just  so  many  stages  less  than  God, 


SCENE    VI.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  85 

That  universal  and  all-sided  Love. 

I  'm  wretched,  Edward,  to  the  very  heart ; 

I  see  an  unreached  heaven  of  young  desire 

Shine  through  my  hopeless  tears.     My  drooping  sails 

Flap  idly  'gainst  the  mast  of  my  intent. 

I  rot  upon  the  waters  when  my  prow 

Should  grate  the  golden  isles. 

EDWARD. 

What  wouldst  thou  do  ? 
Thy  brain  did  teem  with  vapors  wild  and  vast. 

WALTER. 

Bat  since  my  younger  and  my  hotter  days 
(As  nebula  condenses  to  an  orb), 
These  vapors  gathered  to  one  shining  hope, 
Sole-hanging  in  my  sky. 

EDWARD. 

What  hope  is  that  ? 

WALTER. 

To  set  this  Age  to  music  —  The  great  work 
Before  the  Poet  now  —  I  do  believe 
When  it  is  fully  sung,  its  great  complaint, 
Its  hope,  its  yearning,  told  to  earth  and  heaven, 
Our  troubled  age  shall  pass,  as  doth  a  day 


86  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VI. 

That  leaves  the  west  all  crimson  with  the  promise 

Of  the  diviner  morrow,  which  even  then 

Is  hurrying  up  the  world's  great  side  with  light. 

Father !  if  I  should  live  to  see  that  morn, 

Let  me  go  upward,  like  a  lark,  to  sing 

One  song  in  the  dawning ! 

EDWARD. 

Oh,  you'd  patch  with  song 
The  ragged  mantle  of  the  beggar  earth ! 
Most  hopeless,  truly,  this  of  all  the  tasks 
You  could  put  hands  to.     No,  my  ardent  friend ! 
You  need  not  tinker  at  this  leaking  world, 
'Tis  ruined  past  all  cure. 

WALTER. 

Edward,  for  shame ! 
Not  on  a  path  of  reprobation  runs 
The  trembling  earth.     God's  eye  doth  follow  her 
With  far  more  love  than  doth  her  maid,  the  moon. 
Speak  no  harsh  words  of  Earth,  she  is  our  mother, 
And  few  of  us,  her  sons,  who  have  not  added 
A  wrinkle  to  her  brow.     She  gave  us  birth, 
We  drew  our  nurture  from  her  ample  breast, 
And  there  is  coming,  for  us  both,  an  hour 
When  we  shall  pray  that  she  will  ope  her  arms 
And  take  us  back  again.     Oh,  I  would  pledge 


SCENE  VI.]     '  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  87 

My  heart,  my  blood,  my  brain,  to  case  the  earth 
Of  but  one  single  pang ! 

EDWARD. 

So  would  not  I. 

Because  the  pangs  of  earth  shall  ne'er  be  eased. 
We  sleep  on  velvets  now,  instead  of  leaves ; 
The  land  is  covered  with  a  net  of  iron, 
Upon  whose  spider-like,  far-stretching  lines, 
The  trains  are  rushing,  and  the  peevish  sea 
Frets  'gainst  the  bulging  bosoms  of  the  ships 
Whose  keels  have  waked  it  from  its  hour's  repose. 
Walter !  this  height  of  civilization's  tide 
Measures  our  wrong.     We  've  made  the  immortal  Soul 
Slave  to  the  Body.     'Tis  the  Soul  has  wrought 
And  laid  the  iron  roads,  evoked  a  power 
Next  mightiest  to  God,  to  drive  the  trains, 
That  bring  the  country  butter  up  to  town  ; 
Has  drawn  the  terrible  lightning  from  its  cloud, 
And  tamed  it  to  an  eager  Mercury, 
Running  with  messages  of  news  and  grain ; 
And  still  the  Soul  is  tasked  to  harder  work, 
For  Paradise,  according  to  the  world, 
Is  scarce  a  league  a-head. 

WALTER. 

The  man  I  loved 


88  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  '  [SCENE    VI. 

Wrought  this  complaint  of  thine  into  a  song, 
Which  I  sung  long  ago. 

EDWARD. 

We  must  reverse 

The  plans  of  ages.     Let  the  body  sweat, 
So  that  the  soul  be  calm,  why  should  it  work  ? 
Say,  had  I  spent  the  pith  of  half  my  life, 
And  made  me  master  of  our  English  law, 
What  gain  had  I  on  resurrection  morn, 
But  such  as  hath  the  body  of  a  clown, 
That  it  could  turn  a  summerset  on  earth  ? 
A  single  soul  is  richer  than  all  worlds, 
Its  acts  are  only  shadows  of  itself, 
And  oft  its  wondrous  wealth  is  all  unknown ; 
'T  is  like  a  mountain-range,  whose  rugged  sides 
Feed  starveling  flocks  of  sheep ;  pierce  the  bare  sides, 
And  they  ooze  plenteous  gold.     We  must  go  down 
And  work  our  souls  like  mines,  make  books  our  lamps, 
Not  shrines  to  worship  at,  nor  heed  the  world  — 
Let  it  go  roaring  past.     You  sigh  for  Fame  ; 
Would  serve  as  long  as  Jacob  for  his  love, 
So  you  might  win  her.     Spirits  calm  and  still 
Are  high  above  your  order,  as  the  stars 
Sit  large  and  tranquil  o'er  the  restless  clouds 
That  weep  and  lighten,  pelt  the  earth  with  hail, 
And  fret  themselves  away.     The  truly  great 


SCENE    VI.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA. 

Rest  in  the  knowledge  of  their  own  deserts, 
Nor  seek  the  confirmation  of  the  world. 
Wouldst  thou  be  calm  and  still  ? 

WALTER. 

I  'd  be  as  lieve 

A  minnow  to  leviathan,  that  draws 
A  furrow  like  a  ship.     Away  !  away! 
You  'd  make  the  world  a  very  oyster-bed. 
I'd  rather  be  the  glad,  bright-leaping  foam, 
Than  the  smooth  sluggish  sea.     O  let  me  live 
To  love,  and  flush,  and  thrill  —  or  let  me  die  ! 

EDWARD. 

And  yet,  what  weariness  was  on  your  tongue 
An  hour  ago !  —  you  shall  be  wearier  yet. 


90 


SCENE   VII. 


A  Balcony  overlooking  the  sea —  EDWARD  and 
WALTER  seated. 

WALTER. 

THE  lark  is  singing  in  the  blinding  sky, 
Hedges  are  white  with  May.     The  bridegroom  sea 
Is  toying  with  the  shore,  his  wedded  bride, 
And  in  the  fulness  of  his  marriage  joy, 
He  decorates  her  tawny  brow  with  shells, 
Retires  a  space,  to  see  how  fair  she  looks, 
Then  proud,  runs  up  to  kiss  her.     All  is  fair — 
All  glad,  from  grass  to  sun !     Yet  more  I  love 
Than  this,  the  shrinking  day,  that  sometimes  comes 
In  Winter's  front,  so  fair  'mong  its  dark  peers, 
It  seems  a  straggler  from  the  files  of  June, 
Which  in  its  wanderings  had  lost  its  wits, 
And  half  its  beauty ;  and,  when  it  returned, 
Finding  its  -old  companions  gone  away, 


SCENE    VII.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  91 

It  joined  November's  troop,  then  marching  past ; 
And  so  the  frail  thing  comes,  and  greets  the  world 
With  a  thin  crazy  smile,  then  burst  in  tears, 
And  all  the  while  it  holds  within  its  hand 
A  few  half-withered  flowers.     I  love  and  pity  it! 

EDWARD. 

Air  is  like  Happiness  or  Poetry. 
We  see  it  in  the  glorious  roof  of  day, 
We  feel  it  lift  the  down  upon  the  cheek, 
We  hear  it  when  it  sways  the  heavy  woods, 
We  close  our  hand  on 't  —  and  we  have  it  not. 

WALTER. 

I  'd  be  above  all  things  the  summer  wind 
Blowing  across  a  kingdom,  rich  with  alms 
From  ev'ry  flower  and  forest,  ruffling  oft 
The  sea  to  transient  wrinkles  in  the  sun, 
Where  ev'ry  wrinkle  disappears  in  light 

EDWARD. 

Like  God,  I  would  pervade  Humanity, 
From  bridegroom  dreaming  on  his  marriage  morn, 
To  a  wild  wretch  tied  on  the  farthest  bough 
Of  oak  that  roars  on  edge  of  an  abyss, 
The  while  the  desperate  wind  with  all  its  strength 


92  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VII. 

Strains  the  whole  night  to  drive  it  down  the  gulf, 

Which  like  a  beast  gapes  wide  for  man  and  tree. 

I M  creep  into  the  lost  and  ruined  hearts 

Of  sinful  women  dying  in  the  streets, — 

Of  pinioned  men,  their  necks  upon  the  block, 

Axe  gleaming  in  the  air. 

WALTER. 

Away,  away ! 

Break  not,  my  Edward,  this  consummate  hour  ; 
For  veiy  oft  within  the  year  that 's  past 
I've  fought  against  thy  drifts  of  wintry  thought 
Till  they  put  out  my  fires,  and  I  have  lain, 
A  volcano  choked  with  snow.     Now  let  me  rest ! 
If  I  should  wear  a  rose  but  once  in  life, 
You  surely  would  not  tear  it  leaf  from  leaf, 
And  trample  all  its  sweetness  in  the  dust ! 
Thy  dreary  thoughts  will  make  my  festal  heart 
As  empty  and  as  desolate 's  a  church 
When  worshippers  are  gone  and  night  cornes  down. 
Spare  me  this  happy  hour,  and  let  me  rest ! 

EDWARD. 

The  banquet  you  do  set  before  your  joys 
Is  surely  but  indifferently  served, 
When  they  so  readily  vacate  their  seats. 


SCENE    VII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  93 

WALTER  (abstractedly). 
Would  I  could  raise  the  dead  ! 
I  am  as  happy  as  the  singing  heavens  — 
There  was  one  very  dear  to  me  that  died, 
With  heart  as  vacant  as  a  last-year's  nest. 
Oh,  could  I  bring  her  back,  I'd  empty  mine, 
And  brim  hers  with  my  joy  !  —  enough  for  both. 

EDWARD  (after  a  pause). 
The  garrulous  sea  is  talking  to  the  shore, 
Let  us  go  down  and  hear  the  greybeard's  speech. 

[  They  walk  along  the  sands. 
I  shall  go  down  to  Bedfordshire  to-morrow. 
Will  you  go  with  me  ? 

WALTER. 

Whom  shall  we  see  there  ? 

EDWARD. 

Why,  various  specimens  of  that  biped,  Man. 
I  '11  show  you  one  who  might  have  been  an  abbot 
In  the  old  time ;  a  large  and  portly  man, 
With  merry  eyes,  and  crown  that  shines  like  glass. 
No  thin-smiled  April  he,  bedript  with  tears, 
But  appled- Autumn,  golden-cheeked  and  tan  ; 
A  jest  in  his  mouth  feels  sweet  as  crusted  wine. 
As  if  all  eager  for  a  merry  thought, 


94  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE  VII, 

The  pits  of  laughter  dimple  in  his  cheeks. 

His  speech  is  flavorous,  evermore  he  talks 

In  a  warm,  brown,  autumnal  sort  of  style. 

A  worthy  man,  Sir  !  who  shall  stand  at  compt 

With  conscience  white,  save  some  few  stains  of  wine. 

WALTER. 

Commend  me  to  him  !     He  is  half  right.     The  Past 
Is  but  an  emptied  flask,  and  the  rich  Future 
A  bottle  yet  uncorked.     Who  is  the  next  ? 

EDWARD. 

Old  Mr.  Wilmott,  nothing  in  himself, 
But  rich  as  ocean.     He  has  in  his  hand 
Sea-marge  and  moor,  and  miles  of  stream  and  grove, 
Dull  flats,  scream-startled,  as  the  exulting  train 
Streams  like  a  meteor  through  the  freighted  night, 
Wind-billowed  plains  of  wheat,  and  marshy  fens, 
Unto  whose  reeds  on  midnights  blue  and  cold, 
Long  strings  of  geese  come  clanging  from  the  stars. 
Yet  wealthier  in  one  child  than  in  all  these  ! 
Oh  !  she  is  fair  as  Heaven !  and  she  wears 
The  sweetest  name  that  woman  ever  wore. 
And  eyes  to  match  her  name  —  'T  is  Violet. 

WALTER. 
If  like  her  name,  she  must  be  beautiful. 


SCENE    VII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  95 

EDWARD. 

And  so  she  is  ;  she  has  dark  violet  eyes, 

A  voice  as  soft  as  moonlight.     On  her  cheek 

The  blushing  blood  miraculous  doth  range 

From  sea-shell  pink  to  sunset.     When  she  speaks 

Her  soul  is  shining  through  her  earnest  face, 

As  shines  a  moon  through  its  up-swathing  cloud  — 

My  tongue  's  a  very  beggar  in  her  praise, 

It  cannot  gild  her  gold  with  all  its  words. 

"WALTER. 

Hath  unbreeched  Cupid  struck  your  heart  of  ice  ? 
You  speak  of  her  as  if  you  were  her  lover. 
Could  you  not  find  a  home  within  her  heart  ? 
No,  no  !  you  are  too  cold,  you  never  loved. 

EDWARD. 

There 's  nothing  colder  than  a  desolate  hearth. 

WALTER. 

A  desolate  hearth  !    Did  fire  leap  on  it  once  ? 

EDWARD. 

My  hand  is  o'er  my  heart  —  and  shall  remain.  — 
Let  the  swift  minutes  run,  red  sink  the  sun, 
To-morrow  will  be  rich  with  Violet. 


96  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VII. 

WALTER. 

So  be  it,  large  he  sinks !     Repentant  Day 
Frees  with  his  dying  hand  the  pallid  stars 
He  held  imprisoned  since  his  young  hot  dawn. 
Now  watch  with  what  a  silent  step  of  fear 
They'll  steal  out  one  by  one,  and  overspread 
The  cold  delicious  meadows  of  the  night. 

EDWARD. 

And  lo,  the  first  one  flutters  in  the  blue 
With  a  quick  sense  of  liberty  and  joy  ! 

[  Two  hours  afterwards. 

WALTER. 

The  rosy  glow  has  faded  from  the  sky, 
The  rosy  glow  has  faded  from  the  sea. 
A  tender  sadness  drops  upon  my  soul 
Like  the  soft  twilight  dropping  on  the  world. 

EDWARD. 

Behold  yon  shining  symbol  overhead, 
Clear  Venus  hanging  in  the  mellow  west, 
Jupiter  large  and  sovereign  in  the  east, 
With  the  red  Mars  between. 

WALTER. 

See  yon  poor  star 


SCENE    VII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  97 

That  shudders  o'er  the  mournful  hill  of  pines  ! 
'T  would  almost  make  you  weep,  it  seems  so  sad. 
'T  is  like  an  orphan  trembling  with  the  cold 
Over  his  mother's  grave  among  the  pines. 
Like  a  wild  lover  who  has  found  his  love 
Worthless  and  foul,  our  friend,  the  sea,  has  left 
His  paramour  the  shore  ;  naked  she  lies, 
Ugly  and  black  and  bare.     Hark  how  he  moans  ! 
The  pain  is  in  his  heart.     Inconstant  fool ! 
He  will  be  up  upon  her  breast  to-morrow 
As  eager  as  to-day. 

EDWARD. 

Like  man  in  that. 

We  cannot  see  the  lighthouse  in  the  gloom, 
We  cannot  see  the  rock  ;  but  look  !  now,  now, 
It  opes  its  ruddy  eye,  the  night  recoils, 
A  crimson  line  of  light  runs  out  to  sea, 
A  guiding  torch  to  the  benighted  ships. 

[After  a  long  pause. 

O  God  !  'mid  our  despairs  and  throbs  and  pains, 
What  a  calm  joy  doth  fill  great  Nature's  heart ! 

WALTER. 

Thou  look'st  up  to  the  night  as  to  the  face 
Of  one  thou  lov'st ;  I  know  her  beauty  is 
Deep-mirrored  in  thy  soul  as  in  a  sea. 

7 


98  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE   VII. 

What  are  thy  thinkings  of  the  earth  and  stars  ? 
A  theatre  magnificently  lit 
For  sorry  acting,  undeserved  applause  ? 
Dost  think  there  's  any  music  in  the  spheres  ? 
Or  doth  the  whole  creation,  in  thine  ear, 
Moan  like  a  stricken  creature  to  its  God, 
Fettered  eternal  in  a  lair  of  pain  ? 

EDWARD. 

I  think  —  we  are  two  fools,  let  us  to  bed. 
What  care  the  stars  for  us  ? 


99 


SCENE   VIII. 


Evening  —  A  Room  in  a  Manor — Mr.  WILMOTT, 

ARTHUR,  EDWARD,  —  WALTER,  seated 

a  little  apart. 

WALTER. 

SHE  grows  on  me  like  moonrise  on  the  night — 
My  life  is  shaped  in  spite  of  me,  the  same 
As  ocean  by  his  shores.     Why  am  I  here  ? 
The  weary  sun  was  lolling  in  the  west, 
Edward  and  I  were  sauntering  on  the  shore 
Yawning  with  idleness  ;  and  so  we  came 
To  kill  the  tedium  of  slow-creeping  days. 
On  such  slight  hinges  an  existence  turns ! 
How  frequent  in  the  very  thick  of  life 
We  rub  clothes  with  a  fate  that  hurries  past  ! 
A  tiresome  friend  detains  us  in  the  street, 
We  part,  and  turning,  meet  fate  in  the  teeth. 


100  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VIII. 

A  moment  more  or  less  had  'voided  it. 

Yet  through  the  subtle  texture  of  our  souls, 

From  circumstance  each  draws  a  different  hue, 

As  sunlight  falling  on  a  bed  of  flowers, 

From  the  same  sunlight  one  draws  crimson  deep, 

Another  azure  pale.     Edward  and  I 

See  Violet  each  day,  her  silks  brush  both, 

She  smiles  on  both  alike  —  My  heart !  she  comes. 

[VIOLET  enters  and  crosses  the  room. 
O  God  !  I  'd  be  the  very  floor  that  bears 
Such  a  majestic  thing  !    Now  feed,  my  eyes, 
On  beauteous  poison,  Nightshade,  honey  sweet. 

[ A  silence. 

VIOLET. 

There  is  a  ghastly  chasm  in  the  talk, 
As  if  a  fate  hung  in  the  midst  of  us, 
It 's  shadow  on  each  heart.    Why,  this  should  be 
A  dark  and  lustrous  night  of  wit  and  wine, 
Rich  with  quick  bouts  of  merry  argument, 
And  witty  sallies  quenched  in  laughter  sweet, 
Yet  my  voice  trembles  in  a  solitude, 
Like  a  lone  man  in  a  great  wilderness. 

MR.    WILMOTT. 

Arthur,  you  once  could  sing  a  roaring  song, 
That  to  the  chorus  drew  our  voices  out ; 


SCENE    VIII.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  101 

'T  were  no  bad  plan  to  sing  us  one  to-night. 

Come,  wash  the  roughness  from  your  throat  with  wine. 

ARTHUR. 

What  sort  of  song,  Sirs,  shall  I  sing  to  you  — 
Dame  Venus  panting  on  her  bed  of  flowers, 
Or  Bacchus  purple-mouthed  astride  his  tun  ? 
Now  for  a  headlong  song  of  blooded  youth, 
Give  't  such  a  welcome  as  shall  lift  the  roof  off — 
Sweet  friends,  be  ready  with  a  hip  hurrah  ! 

ARTHUR  sings. 

A  fig  for  a  draught  from  your  crystalline  fountains, 
Your  cold  sunken  wells, 
In  mid  forest  dells, 

Ha !  bring  me  the  fiery  bright  dew  of  the  mountains, 
When  yellowed  with  peat-reek,  and   mellowed  with 
age. 

O,  richest  joy-giver  ! 
Rare  warmer  of  liver  ! 

Diviner  than  kisses,  thou  droll  and  thou  sage  ! 
Fine  soul  of  a  land  struck  with  brightest  sun-tints, 
Of  dark  purple  moors, 
Of  sleek  ocean-floors, 

Of  hills  stained  with  heather  like  bloody  footprints ; 
In  sunshine,  in  rain,  a  flask  shall  be  nigh  me, 
Warm  heart,  blood  and  brain,  Fine  Sprite  deify  me  ! 


102  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VIII. 

I  Jve    drunk    'mong   slain    deer   in   a   lone    mountain 
shieling, 

I  've  drunk  till  delirious, 
While  rain  beat  imperious, 

And  rang  roof  and  rafter  with  bagpipes  and  reeling. 

I  've  drunk  in  Red  Rannoch,  amid  its  gray  boulders, 
Where,  fain  to  be  kist, 
Through  his  thin  scarf  of  mist 

Ben-More  to  the  sun  heaves  his  wet  shining    shoul 
ders  ! 

I  've  tumbled  in  hay  with  the  fresh  ruddy  lasses, 
I  've  drunk  with  the  reapers, 
I  've  roared  with  the  keepers, 

And  scared  night  away  with  the  ring  of  our  glasses ! 

In  sunshine,  in  rain,  a  flask  shall  be  nigh  me, 

Warm  heart,  blood,  and  brain,  Fine  Sprite  deify  me ! 

Come,  string  bright  songs  upon  a  thread  of  wine, 
And  let  the  coming  midnight  pass  through  us, 
Like  a  dusk  prince  crusted  with  gold  and  gems ! 
Our  studious  Edward  from  his  Lincoln  fens, 
And  home  quaint-gabled  hid  in  rooky  trees  ; 
Seen  distant  is  the  sun  in  the  arch  of  noon, 
Seen  close  at  hand,  the  same  sun  large  and  red, 
His  day's  work  done,  within  the  lazy  west 
Sitting  right  portly,  staring  at  the  world 
With  a  round,  rubicund,  wine-bibbing  face  — 


SCENE  VIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  103 

Ha !  Like  a  dove,  I  see  a  merry  song 
Pluming  itself  for  flight  upon  his  lips. 

EDWARD  sings. 
My  heart  is  beating  with  all  things  that  are, 

My  blood  is  wild  unrest ; 
With  what  a  passion  pants  yon  eager  star, 

Upon  the  water's  breast ! 
Clasped  in  the  air's  soft  arms  the  world  doth  sleep, 

Asleep  its  moving  seas,  its  humming  lands ; 
With  what  an  hungiy  lip  the  ocean  deep 

Lappeth  for  ever  the  white-breasted  sands  ! 
What  love  is  in  the  moon's  eternal  eyes, 

Leaning  unto  the  earth  from  out  the    midnight 
skies  ! 

Thy  large  dark  eyes  are  wide  upon  my  brow, 

Filled  with  as  tender  light 
As  yon  low  moon  doth  fill  the  heavens  now, 

This  mellow  autumn  night  ! 
On  the  late  flowers  I  linger  at  thy  feet. 

I  tremble  when  I  touch  thy  garment's  rim, 
I  clasp  thy  waist,  I  feel  thy  bosom's  beat  — 

O  kiss  me  into  faintness  sweet  and  dim  ! 
Thou  leanest  to  me  as  a  swelling  peach, 

Full-juiced   and  mellow,   leaneth   to  the  taker's 
reach. 


104  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VIII. 

Thy  hair  is  loosened  by  that  kiss  you  gave, 

It  floods  my  shoulders  o'er  ; 
Another  yet !    Oh,  as  a  weary  wave 

Subsides  upon  the  shore, 
My  hungry  being  with  its  hopes,  its  fears, 

My  heart  like  moon-charmed  waters,  all  unrest, 
Yet  strong  as  is  despair,  as  weak  as  tears, 

Doth  faint  upon  thy  breast ! 
I  feel  thy  clasping  arms,  my  cheek  is  wet 
With  thy  rich  tears.     One  kiss  !    Sweet,  sweet,  an 
other  yet ! 

I  sang  this  song  some  twenty  years  ago, 
(Hot  to  the  ear-tips,  with  great  thumps  of  heart,) 
On  the  gold  lawn,  while  Caesar-like,  the  sun 
Gathered  his  robes  around  him  as  he  fell. 

ARTHUR. 

Struck  by  some  country  cousin,  a  rosy  beauty 

Of  the  Dutch-cheese  order,  riched  with  great  black  eyes, 

Which,  when  you  planned  a  theft  upon  her  lips, 

Looked  your  heart  quite  away  ! 

Oh,  Love  !  oh,  Wine  !  thou  sun  and  moon  o'  our  lives, 

What  oysters  were  we  without  love  and  wine  ! 

Our  host,  1  doubt  not,  vaults  a  mighty  tun, 

Wide-wombed  and  old,  cob  webbed  and  dusted  o'er. 

Broach !  and  within  its  gloomy  sides  you  '11  find 


SCENE    VIII.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  105 

A  beating  heart  of  wine.     The  world  's  a  tun, 
A  gloomy  tun,  but  he  who  taps  the  world 
Will  find  much  sweetness  in 't.     Walter,  my  boy, 
Against  this  sun  of  wine's  most  purple  light 
Burst  into  song. 

WALTER. 

I  fear,  Sir,  I  have  none. 

ARTHUR. 

Hang  nuts  in  autumn  woods  ?    Then  t  'is  your  trade, 

Spin  us  a  new  one.     Come  !  some  youth  love-mad, 

Reading  the  thoughts  within  his  lady's  eyes, 

Earnest  as  One  that  looks  into  the  Book, 

Seeking  the  road  to  bliss  — 

Cltf.he  me  this  bare  bough  with  your  sunny  flowers. 

WALTER. 

The  evening  heaven  is  not  always  dressed 
With  frail  cloud-empires  of  the  setting  sun, 
Nor  are  we  always  in  our  singing-robes. 
I  have  no  song,  nor  can  I  make  you  one, 
But,  with  permission,  I  will  tell  a  tale. 

ARTHUR. 

If  short  and  merry,  Heaven  speed  your  tongue  ; 
If  long  and  sad,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  ! 


106  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VIII. 

WALTER. 

Within  a  city  One  was  born  to  toil, 

Whose  heart  could  not  mate  with  the  common  doom, 

To  fall  like  a  spent  arrow  in  the  grave. 

'Mid  the  eternal  hum,  the  boy  clomb  up 

Into  a  shy  and  solitary  youth, 

With  strange  joys  and  strange  sorrows,  oft  to  tears 

He  was  moved,  he  knew  not  why,  when  he  has  stood 

Among  the  lengthened  shadows  of  the  eve, 

Such  feeling  overflowed  him  from  the  sky. 

Alone  he  dwelt,  solitary  as  a  star 

Unsphered  and  exiled,  yet  he  knew  no  scorn. 

Once  did  he  say,  c  For  me,  I  'd  rather  live 

With  this  weak  human  heart  and  yearning  blood, 

Lonely  as  God,  than  mate  with  barren  souls  ; 

More  brave,  more  beautiful,  than  myself  must  be 

The  man  whom  truly  I  can  call  my  Friend ; 

He  must  be  an  Inspirer,  who  can  draw 

To  higher  heights  of  Being,  and  ever  stand 

O'er  me  in  unreached  beauty,  like  the  moon  ; 

Soon  as  he  fail  in  this,  the  crest  and  crown 

Of  noble  friendship,  he  is  nought  to  me. 

What  so  ungucssed  as  Death  ?    Yet  to  the  dead 

It  lies  as  plain  as  yesterday  to  us. 

Let  me  go  forward  to  my  grave  alone, 

What  need  have  I  to  linger  by  dry  wells  ? ' 

Books  were  his  chiefest  friends.     In  them  he  read 


SCENE  VIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  107 

Of  those  great  spirits  who  went  down  like  suns, 
And  left  upon  the  mountain-tops  of  Death 
A  light  that  made  them  lovely.     His  own  heart 
Made  him  a  Poet.     Yesterday  to  him 
Was  richer  far  than  fifty  years  to  come. 
Alchymist  Memory  turned  his  past  to  gold. 
When  morn  awakes  against  the  dark  wet  earth, 
Back  to  the  morn  she  laughs  with  dewy  sides, 
Up  goes  her  voice  of  larks !     With  like  effect 
Imagination  opened  on  his  life, 
It  lay  all  lovely  in  that  rarer  light. 

He  was  with  Nature  on  the  Sabbath-days, 

Far  from  the  dressed  throngs  and  the  city  bells, 

He  gave  his  hot  brows  to  the  kissing  wind, 

While  restless  thoughts  were  stirring  in  his  heart. 

'These  worldly  men  will  kill  me  with  their  scorns, 

But  Nature  never  mocks  or  jeers  at  me ; 

Her  dewy  soothings  of  the  earth  and  air 

Do  wean  me  from  the  thoughts  that  mad  my  brain. 

Our  interviews  are  stolen,  I  can  look, 

Nature  !  in  thy  serene  and  griefiess  eyes 

But  at  long  intervals  ;  yet,  Nature  !  yet, 

Thy  silence  and  the  fairness  of  thy  face 

Are  present  with  me  in  the  booming  streets. 

Yon  quarry  shattered  by  the  bursting  fire, 

And  disembowelled  by  the  biting  pick, 


108  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    V1I1. 

Kind  Nature  !     Thou  has  taken  to  thyself; 

Thy  weeping  Aprils  and  soft-blowing  Mays, 

Thy  blossom-buried  Junes,  have  smoothed  its  scars, 

And  hid  its  wounds  and  trenches  deep  in  flowers. 

So  take  my  worn  and  passion-wasted  heart, 

Maternal  Nature  !     Take  it  to  thyself, 

Efface  the  scars  of  scorn,  the  rents  of  hate, 

The  wounds  of  alien  eyes,  visit  my  brain 

With  thy  deep  peace,  fill  with  thy  calm  my  heart, 

And  the  quick  courses  of  my  human  blood.' 

Thus  would  he  muse  and  wander,  till  the  sun 

Reached  the  red  west,  where  all  the  waiting  clouds, 

Attired  before  in  homely  dun  and  gray, 

Like  Parasites  that  dress  themselves  in  smiles 

To  feed  a  great  man's  eye,  in  haste  put  on 

Their  purple  mantles  rimmed  with  ragged  gold, 

And  congregating  in  a  shining  crowd, 

Flattered  the  sinking  orb  with  faces  bright. 

As  slow  he  journeyed  home,  the  wanderer  saw 

The  laboring  fires  come  out  against  the  dark, 

For  with  the  night  the  country  seemed  on  flame : 

Innumerable  furnaces  and  pits, 

And  gloomy  holds,  in  which  that  bright  slave,  Fire, 

Doth  pant  and  toil  all  day  and  night  for  man, 

Threw  large  and  angry  lustres  on  the  sky, 

And  shifting  lights  across  the  long  black  roads. 


SCENE    VIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  109 

Dungeoned  in  poverty,  he  saw  afar 

The  shining  peaks  of  fame  that  wore  the  sun, 

Most  heavenly  bright,  they  mocked  him  through  his 

bars. 

A  lost  man  wildercd  on  the  dreary  sea, 
When  loneliness  hath  somewhat  touched  his  brain, 
Doth  shrink  and  shrink  beneath  the  watching  sky, 
Which  hour  by  hour  more  plainly  doth  express 
The  features  of  a  deadly  enemy, 
Drinking  his  woes  with  a  most  hungry  eye. 
Ev'n  so,  by  constant  staring  on  his  ills, 
They  grew  worse-featured  ;  till,  in  his  great  rage, 
His  spirit,  like  a  roused  sea,  white  with  wrath, 
Struck  at  the  stars.    *  Hold  fast !  Hold  fast !  my  brain  ! 
Had  I  a  curse  to  kill  with,  by  yon  Heaven ! 
I  'd  feast  the  worms  to-night.'     Dreadfuller  words 
Whose  very  terror  blanched  his  conscious  lips, 
He  uttered  in  his  hour  of  agony. 
With  quick  and  subtle  poison  in  his  veins, 
With  madness  burning  in  his  heart  and  brain, 
Wild  words,  like  lightnings,  round  his  pallid  lips, 
He  rushed  to  die  in  the  very  eyes  of  God. 
'Twas  late,  for  as  he  reached  the  open  roads, 
Where  night  was  reddened  by  the  drudging  fires, 
The  drowsy  steeples  tolled  the  hour  of  One. 
The  city  now  was  left  long  miles  behind, 
A  large  black  hill  was  looming  'gainst  the  stars, 


110  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VIII. 

He  reached  its  summit.     Far  above  his  head, 

Up  there  upon  the  still  and  mighty  night, 

God's  name  was  writ  in  worlds.     Awhile  he  stood, 

Silent  and  throbbing  like  a  midnight  star. 

He  raised  his  hands,  Alas  !  'twas  not  in  prayer  — 

He  long  had  ceased  to  pray.     '  Father,'  he  said, 

4 1  wished  to  loose  some  music  o'er  Thy  world, 

To  strike  from  its  firm  seat  some  hoary  wrong, 

And  then  to  die  in  autumn  with  the  flowers, 

And  leaves,  and  sunshine  I  have  loved  so  well. 

Thou  might'st  have  smoothed  my  way  to  some  great 

end  — 

But  wherefore  speak  ?     Thou  art  the  mighty  God. 
This  gleaming  wilderness  of  suns  and  worlds 
Is  an  eternal  and  triumphant  hymn, 
Chanted  by  Thee  unto  Thine  own  great  self! 
Wrapt  in  Thy  skies,  what  were  my  prayers  to  Thee  ? 
My  pangs  ?    My  tears  of  blood  ?    They  could  not  move 
Thee  from  the  depths  of  Thine  immortal  dream. 
Thou  hast  forgotten  me,  God  !     Here,  therefore  here, 
To-night  upon  this  bleak  and  cold  hill-side, 
Like  a  forsaken  watch-fire  will  I  die, 
And  as  my  pale  corse  fronts  the  glittering  night, 
It  shall  reproach  Thee  before  all  Thy  worlds.' 
His  death  did  not  disturb  that  ancient  Night. 
Scornfullest  Night !     Over  the  dead  there  hung 


SCENE    VIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  Ill 

Great  gulfs  of  silence,  blue,  and  strewn  with  stars  — 
No  sound  —  no  motion  —  in  the  eternal  depths. 

EDWARD. 

Now,  what  a  sullen-blooded  fool  was  this, 
At  sulks  with  Earth  and  Heaven  !     Could  he  not 
Out-weep  his  passion  like  a  blustering  day, 
And  be  clear-skied  thereafter  ?     He,  poor  wretch, 
Must  needs  be  famous !     Lord !  how  Poets  geek 
At  Fame,  their  idol.     Call't  a  worthless  thing, 
Colder  than  lunar  rainbows,  changefuller 
Than  sleeked  purples  on  a  pigeon's  neck, 
More  transitory  than  a  woman's  loves, 
The  bubbles  of  her  heart  —  and  yet  each  mocker 
Would  gladly  sell  his  soul  for  one  sweet  crumb 
To  roll  beneath  his  tongue. 

WALTER. 

Alas !  the  youth, 

Earnest  as  flame,  could  not  so  tame  his  heart 
As  to  live  quiet  days.     When  the  heart-sick  Earth 
Turns  her  broad  back  upon  the  gaudy  sun, 
And  stoops  her  weary  forehead  to  the  night, 
To  struggle  with  her  sorrow  all  alone, 
The  moon,  that  patient  sufferer,  pale  with  pain, 
Presses  her  cold  lips  on  her  sister's  brow, 


112  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE  VIII. 

Till  she  is  calm.     But  in  his  sorrow's  night 

He  found  no  comforter.     A  man  can  bear 

A  world's  contempt  when  he  has  that  within 

Which  says  he 's  worthy  —  when  he  contemns  himself, 

There  burns  the  hell.     So  this  wild  youth  was  foiled 

In  a  great  purpose  —  in  an  agony, 

In  which  he  learned  to  hate  and  scorn  himself, 

He  foamed  at  God,  and  died. 

MR.    WILMOTT. 

Rain  similes  upon  his  corse  like  tears  — 
The  youth  you  spoke  of  was  a  glowing  moth, 
Born  in  the  eve  and  crushed  before  the  dawn. 

VIOLET. 

He  was,  methinks,  like  that  frail  flower  that  comes 
Amid  the  nips  and  gusts  of  churlish  March, 
Drinking  pale  beauty  from  sweet  April's  tears, 
Dead  on  the  hem  of  May. 

EDWARD. 

A  Lapland  fool, 

Who,  staring  upward  as  the  Northern  lights 
Banner  the  skies  with  glory,  breaks  his  heart, 
Because  his  smoky  hut  and  greasy  furs 
Are  not  so  rich  as  they. 


SCENE    VIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  113 

ARTHUR. 

Mine  is  pathetic  — 
A  ginger-beer  bottle  burst. 

WALTER  (aside). 

And  mine  would  be 
The  pale  child,  Eve,  leading  her  mother,  Night. 

[MR.  WILMOTT,  ARTHUR,  and  EDWARD 
converse ;  VIOLET  approaches  WALTER. 

VIOLET. 
Did  you  know  well  that  youth  of  whom  you  spake  ? 

WALTER. 

Know  him  !     Oh,  yes,  I  knew  him  as  myself — 

Two  passions  dwelt  at  once  within  his  soul, 

Like  eve  and  sunset  dwelling  in  one  sky. 

And  as  the  sunset  dies  along  the  west, 

Eve  higher  lifts  her  front  of  trembling  stars, 

Till  she  is  seated  in  the  midille  sky, 

So  gradual,  one  passion  slowly  died, 

And  from  its  death  the  other  drew  fresh  life, 

Until  't  was  seated  in  his  soul  alone  — 

The  dead  was  Love  —  the  living,  Poetry. 

VIOLET. 

Alas !  if  Love  rose  never  from  the  dead. 
8 


114  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VIII. 

WALTER. 

Between  him  and  the  Lady  of  his  Love 

There  stood  a  wrinkled  worldling  ripe  for  hell. 

When  with  his  golden  hand  he  plucked  that  flower, 

And  would  have  smelt  it,  lo !  it  paled  and  shrank, 

And  withered  in  his  grasp.     And  when  she  died, 

The  rivers  of  his  heart  ran  all  to  waste  ; 

They  found  no  ocean,  dry  sands  sucked  them  up. 

Lady  !  he  was  a  fool  —  a  pitiful  fool. 

She  said  she  loved  him,  would  be  dead  in  spring  — 

She  asked  him  but  to  stand  beside  her  grave  — 

She  said  she  would  be  daisies  —  and  she  thought 

'T  would  give  her  joy  to  feel  that  he  was  near. 

She  died  like  music  ;  and,  would  you  believe  't  ? 

He  kept  her  foolish  words  within  his  heart 

As  ceremonious  as  a  chapel  keeps 

A  relic  of  a  saint.     And  in  the  spring 

The  doting  idiot  went ! 

VIOLET. 
What  found  he  there  ? 

WALTER. 

Laugh  till  your  sides  ache  !     Oh,  he  went,  poor  fool ! 
But  he  found  nothing  save  red-trampled  clay, 
And  a  dull  sobbing  rain.     Do  you  not  laugh  ? 


SCENE    VIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  115 

Amid  the  comfortless  rain  he  stood  and  wept, 
Bare-headed  in  the  mocking,  pelting  rain. 
He  might  have  known  'twas  ever  so  on  earth. 

VIOLET. 

You  cannot  laugh  yourself,  Sir,  nor  can  I. 
Her  unpolluted  corse  doth  sleep  in  earth, 
Like  a  pure  thought  within  a  sinful  soul. 
Dearer  is  earth  to  God  for  her  sweet  sake. 

WALTER. 

'  T  is  said  our  nature  is  corrupt ;  but  she 
Overlaid  hers  with  all  graces,  ev'n  as  Night 
Wears  such  a  crowd  of  jewels  on  her  face, 
You  cannot  see  'tis  black. 

VIOLET. 

How  looked  this  youth  ? 
Did  he  in  voice  or  mien  resemble  you  ? 
Was  he  about  your  age  ?     Wore  he  such  curls  ? 
Such  eyes  of  dark  sea-blue  ? 

WALTER. 

Why  do  you  ask  ? 

VIOLET. 

I  thought  just  now  you  might  resemble  him. 


116  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE  VIII. 

Were  you  not  brothers  ?  —  twins  ?     Or  was  the  one 
A  shadow  of  the  other  ? 

WALTER. 

What  mean  you  ? 

VIOLET. 

That  like  the  moon  you  need  not  wrap  yourself 
In  any  cloud ;  you  shine  through  each  disguise  ; 
You  are  a  masker  in  a  mask  of  glass. 
You've  such  transparent  sides,  each  casual  eye, 
May  see  the  heaving  heart. 

WALTER. 

Oh,  misery ! 
Is 't  visible  to  thee  ? 

VIOLET. 

'Tis  clear  as  dew! 

Mine  eyes  have  been  upon  it  all  the  night, 
Unknown  to  you. 

WALTER. 

The  sorrowful  alone 

Can  know  the  sorrowful.     What  woe  is  thine, 
That  thou  canst  read  me  thus  ? 


SCENE    VIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  117 

VIOLET. 

A  new-born  power, 

Whose  unformed  features  cannot  clearly  show 
Whether  't  is  Joy  or  Sorrow.     But  the  years 
May  nurture  it  to  either. 

WALTER. 

To  thee  I  'm  bare. 

My  heart  lies  open  to  you,  as  the  earth 
To  the  omniscient  sun.     I  have  a  work  — 
The  finger  of  my  soul  doth  point  it  out ; 
I  trust  God's  finger  points  it  also  out. 
I  must  attempt  it ;  if  my  sinews  fail, 
On  my  unsheltered  head,  men's  scorns  will  fall 
Like  a  slow  shower  of  fire.     Yet  if  one  tear 
Were  mingled  with  them,  it  were  less  to  bear. 

VIOLET. 

I  '11  give  thee  tears,  — 

WALTER. 

That  were  as  queenly  Night 
Would  loosen  all  the  jewels  from  her  hair, 
And  hail  them  on  this  sordid  thing,  the  earth. 
Thy  tears  keep  for  a  worthier  head  than  mine. 

VIOLET. 
I  will  not  cope  with  you  in  compliment. 


118  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    VIII. 

I  '11  give  you  tears,  and  pity,  and  true  thoughts, 
If  you  are  desolate,  my  heart  is  open ; 
I  know  't  is  little  worth,  but  any  hut, 
However  poor,  unto  a  homeless  man, 
Is  welcomer  than  mists  or  nipping  winds. 
But  if  you  conquer  Fame 

WALTER. 

With  eager  hands 

I  '11  bend  the  awful  thing  into  a  crown, 
And  you  will  wear  it. 

VIOLET. 
Oh,  no,  no  ! 
Lay  it  upon  her  grave.  [Another  silence. 

ARTHUR. 

Run  out  again  ! 

We  should  be  jovial  as  the  feasting  gods, 
We  're  silent  as  a  synod  of  the  stars  ! 
The  night  is  out  at  elbows.     Laughter's  dead. 
To  the  rescue,  Violet !     A  song  !   a  song  ! 

VIOLET  sings. 
Upon  my  knee  a  modern  minstrel's  tales, 

Full  as  a  choir  with  music,  lies  unread, 
My  impatient  shallop  flaps  its  silken  sails 

To  rouse  me,  but  I  cannot  lift  my  head. 


SCENE    VIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  119 

I  sec  a  wretched  isle,  that  ghost-like  stands 
Wrapt  in  its  mist-shroud  in  the  wint'ry  main ; 

And  now  a  cheerless  gleam  of  red-ploughed  lands, 
O'er  which  a  crow  flies  heavy  in  the  rain. 

I  Ve  neither  heart  nor  voice  ! 

[Rises  and  draws  the  curtain. 
You  Ve  sat  the  night  out,  Masters  !     Sec,  the  moon 
Lies  stranded  on  the  pallid  coast  of  morn. 

ARTHUR. 

Methinks  our  merriment  lies  stranded,  too. 

Draw  the  long  table  for  a  game  of  bowls, 

You  will  be  captain,  Edward,  —  Gods  !  he  yawns. 

[To  WALTER. 
Your  thunder,  Jove,  has  soured  these  cream-pots  all. 

MR.  WILMOTT. 

To  bed  !    To  bed  ! 


120 


SCENE   IX. 

A  Lawn — Sunset — WALTER  lying  at  VIOLET'S  feet. 

VIOLET. 
You  loved,  then,  very  much  this  friend  of  thine  ? 

WALTER. 

The  sound  of  his  voice  did  warm  my  heart  like  wine. 
He  's  long  since  dead ;  but  if  there  is  a  heaven, 
He  's  in  its  heart  of  bliss. 

VIOLET. 

How  did  you  live  ? 

WALTER. 

We  read  and  wrote  together,  slept  together  ; 
We  dwelt  on  slopes  against  the  morning  sun, 
We  dwelt  in  crowded  streets,  and  loved  to  walk 
While  Labor  slept ;  for,  in  the  ghastly  dawn, 
The  wildered  city  seemed  a  demon's  brain, 


SCENE  IX.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  121 

The  children  of  the  night  its  evil  thoughts. 

Sometimes  we  sat  whole  afternoons,  and  watched 

The  sunset  build  a  city  frail  as  dream, 

With  bridges,  streets  of  splendor,  towers ;  and  saw 

The  fabrics  crumble  into  rosy  ruins, 

And  then  grow  gray  as  heath.     But  our  chief  joy 

Was  to  draw  images  from  everything  ; 

And  images  lay  thick  upon  our  talk, 

As  shells  on  ocean  sands. 

VIOLET. 

From  everything  ! 

Here  is  the  sunset,  yonder  grows  the  moon, 
What  image  would  you  draw  from  these  ? 

WALTER. 

Why,  this. 

The  sun  is  dying  like  a  cloven  king 
In  his  own  blood  ;  the  while  the  distant  moon, 
Like  a  pale  prophetess,  whom  he  has  wronged, 
Leans  eager  forward,  with  most  hungry  eyes, 
Wratching  him  bleed  to  death,  and,  as  he  faints, 
She  brightens  and  dilates  ;  revenge  complete, 
She  walks  in  lonely  triumph  through  the  night. 

VIOLET. 
Give  not  such  hateful  passion  to  the  orb 


122  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE  IX. 

That  cools  the  heated  lands ;  that  ripes  the  fields, 
While  sleep  the  husbandmen,  then  hastes  away 
Ere  the  first  step  of  dawn,  doing  all  good 
In  secret  and  the  night.     'T  is  very  wrong. 
Would  I  had  known  your  friend  ! 

WALTER. 

Iconoclast  ! 
'Tis  better  as  it  is. 

VIOLET. 

W7hy  is  it  so  ? 

WALTER. 

Because  you  would  have  loved  him,  and  then  I 

Would  have  to  wander  outside  of  all  joy, 

Like  Neptune  in  the  cold.  [A  pause. 

VIOLET. 

Do  you  remember 

You  promised  yesterday  you  'd  paint  for  me 
Three  pictures  from  your  life  ? 

WALTER. 

I  '11  do  so  now. 

On  this  delicious  eve,  with  words  like  colors, 
I  '11  limn  them  on  the  canvas  of  your  sense. 


SCENE  IX.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  123 

VIOLET. 

Be  quick  !  be  quick  !  for  see,  the  parting  sun 
But  peers  above  yon  range  of  crimson  bills, 
Taking  bis  last  look  of  this  lovely  scene. 
Dusk  will  be  here  anon. 

WALTER. 

And  all  the  stars  ! 

VIOLET. 
Great  friends  of  yours  ;  you  love  them  overmuch. 

WALTER. 

I  love  the  stars  too  much  !     The  tameless  sea 

Spreads  itself  out  beneath  them,  smooth  as  glass. 

You  cannot  love  them,  lady,  till  you  dwell 

In  mighty  towns  ;  immured  in  their  black  hearts, 

The  stars  are  nearer  to  you  than  the  fields. 

I  'd  grow  an  Atheist  in  these  towns  of  trade, 

Were  't  not  for  stars.     The  smoke  puts  heaven  out ; 

I  meet  sin-bloated  faces  in  the  streets, 

And  shrink  as  from  a  blow.     I  hear  wild  oaths, 

And  curses  spilt  from  lips  that  once  were  sweet, 

And  sealed  for  Heaven  by  a  mother's  kiss. 

I  mix  with  men  whose  hearts  of  human  flesh, 

Beneath  the  petrifying  touch  of  gold, 

Have  grown  as  stony  as  the  trodden  ways. 


124  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE  IX. 

I  see  no  trace  of  God,  till  in  the  night, 
While  the  vast  city  lies  in  dreams  of  gain, 
He  doth  reveal  himself  to  me  in  heaven. 
My  heart  swells  to  Him  as  the  sea  to  the  moon  ; 
Therefore  it  is  I  love  the  midnight  stars. 

VIOLET. 

I  would  I  had  a  lover  who  could  give 
Such  ample  reasons  for  his  loving  me, 
As  you  for  loving  stars  !     But  to  your  task. 

WALTER. 

Wilt  listen  to  the  pictures  from  my  life  ? 

VIOLET. 
Patient  as  evening  to  the  nightingale  ! 

WALTER. 

'Mong  the  green  lanes  of  Kent  —  green  sunny  lanes  — 
Where  troops  of  children  shout,  and  laugh,  and  play, 
And  gather  daisies,  stood  an  antique  home, 
Within  its  orchard,  rich  with  ruddy  fruits  ; 
For  the  full  year  was  laughing  in  his  prime. 
Wealth  of  all  flowers  grew  in  that  garden  green, 
And  the  old  porch  with  its  great  oaken  door 
Was  smothered  in  rose-blooms,  while  o'er  the  walls 
The  honeysuckle  clung  deliciously. 


SCENE  IX.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  125 

Before  the  door  there  lay  a  plot  of  grass, 

Snowed  o'er  with  daisies,  flower  by  all  beloved, 

And  famousest  in  song  —  and  in  the  midst, 

A  carved  fountain  stood,  dried  up  and  broken, 

On  which  a  peacock  perched  and  sunned  itself; 

Beneath,  two  petted  rabbits,  snowy  white, 

Squatted  upon  the  sward. 

A  row  of  poplars  darkly  rose  behind, 

Around  whose  tops,  and  the  old-fashioned  vanes, 

White  pigeons  fluttered,  and  o'er  all  was  bent 

The  mighty  sky,  with  sailing  sunny  clouds. 

One  casement  was  thrown  open,  and  within, 

A  boy  hung  o'er  a  book  of  poesy, 

Silent  as  planet  hanging  o'er  the  sea. 

In  at  the  casement  open  to  the  noon 

Came  sweetest  garden  odors,  and  the  hum  — 

The  drowsy  hum  —  of  the  rejoicing  bees, 

Hcavened  in  blooms  that  overclad  the  walls ; 

And  the  cool  wind  waved  in  upon  his  brow, 

And  stirred  his  curls.     Soft  fell  the  summer  night. 

Then  he  arose,  and  with  inspired  lips  said, — 

4  Stars  !  ye  arc  golden-voiced  clarions 

To  high-aspiring  and  heroic  dooms. 

To-night,  as  I  look  up  unto  ye,  Stars ! 

I  feel  my  soul  rise  to  its  destiny, 

Like  a  strong  eagle  to  its  eyrie  soaring. 

Who  thinks  of  weakness  underneath  ye,  Stars  ? 


126  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IX. 

A  hum  shall  be  on  earth,  a  name  be  heard, 
An  epitaph  shall  look  up  proud  to  God. 
Stars !  read  and  listen,  it  may  not  be  long.' 

VIOLET  (leaning  over  him). 
I  '11  see  that  grand  desire  within  your  eyes. 
Oh,  I  only  sec  myself ! 

WALTER. 
Violet ! 

Could  you  look  through  my  heart  as  through  mine  eyes, 
You'd  find  yourself  there,  too. 

VIOLET. 

Hush,  flatterer ! 
Yet  go  on  with  your  tale. 

WALTER. 

Three  blue  days  passed, 
Full  of  the  sun,  loud  with  a  thousand  larks ; 
An  evening  like  a  gray  child  walked  'tween  each. 
'Twas  in  the  quiet  of  the  fourth  day's  noon, 
The  boy  I  speak  of  slumbered  in  the  wood. 
Like  a  dropt  rose  at  an  oak-root  he  lay, 
A  lady  bent  above  him.     He  awoke  ; 
She  blushed  like  sunset,  'mid  embarrassed  speech ; 
A  shock  of  laughter  made  them  friends  at  once, 


SCENE    IX.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  127 

And  laughter  fluttered  through  their  after-talk, 
As  darts  a  bright  bird  in  and  out  the  leaves. 
All  day  he  drank  her  splendid  light  of  eyes  ; 
Nor  did  they  part  until  the  deepening  east 
'Gan  to  be  sprinkled  with  the  light  of  eve. 

VIOLET. 
Go  on !   go  on  ! 

WALTER. 

June  sang  herself  to  death. 
They  parted  in  the  wood,  she  very  pale  ; 
And  he  walked  home  the  weariest  thing  on  earth. 
That  night  he  sat  in  his  unlighted  room, 
Pale,  sad,  and  solitary,  sick  at  heart, 
For  he  had  parted  with  his  dearest  friends, 
High  aspirations,  bright  dreams  golden-winged, 
Troops  of  fine  fancies  that  like  lambs  did  play 
Amid  the  sunshine  and  the  virgin  dews, 
Thick-lying  in  the  green  fields  of  his  heart. 
Calm  thoughts  that  dwelt  like  hermits  in  his  soul, 
Fair  shapes  that  slept  in  fancifullest  bowers, 
Hopes  and  delights, — He  parted  with  them  all. 
Linked  hand  in  hand  they  went,  tears  in  their  eyes, 
As  faint  and  beautiful  as  eyes  of  flowers, 
And  now  he  sat  alone  with  empty  soul. 
Last  night  his  soul  was  like  a  forest,  haunted 


128  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IX. 

With  pagan  shapes  ;  when  one  nymph  slumbering  lay, 

A  sweet  dream  'neath  her  eyelids,  her  white  lirnbs 

Sinking  full  softly  in  the  violets  dim  ; 

When  timbrelled  troops  rushed  past  with  branches  green. 

One  in  each  fountain,  riched  with  golden  sands, 

With  her  delicious  face  a  moment  seen, 

And  limbs  faint-gleaming  through  their  watery  veil. 

To-night  his  soul  was  like  that  forest  old, 

When  these  were  reft  away,  and  the  wild  wind 

Running  like  one  distract  'mong  their  old  haunts, 

Gold-sanded  fountains  and  the  bladed  flags. 

[ A  pause. 

It  is  enough  to  shake  one  into  tears. 
A  palace  full  of  music  was  his  heart, 
An  earthquake  rent  it  open  to  the  rain  ; 
The  lovely  music  died  —  the  bright  throngs  fled  — 
Despair  came  like  a  foul  and  grizzly  beast, 
And  littered  in  its  consecrated  rooms. 

Nature  wras  leaping  like  a  Bacchanal 

On  the  next  morn,  beneath  its  sky-wide  sheen, 

The  boy  stood  pallid  in  the  rosy  porch. 

The  mad  larks  bathing  in  the  golden  light, 

The  flowers  close-fondled  by  the  impassioned  winds, 

The  smells  that  came  and  went  upon  the  sense, 

Like  faint  waves  on  a  shore,  he  heeded  not ; 

He  could  not  look  the  morning  in  the  eyes. 


SCENE    IX.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  129 

That  singing  morn  he  went  forth  like  a  ship  ; 
Long  years  have  passed,  and  he  has  not  returned, 
Beggared  or  laden,  home. 

VIOLET. 

Ah,  me,  'tis  sad  ! 

And  sorrow's  hand  as  well  as  mine  has  been 
Among  these  golden  curls.     'T  is  past,  't  is  past ; 
It  has  dissolved,  as  did  the  bank  of  cloud 
That  lay  in  the  west  last  night. 

WALTER. 

I  yearned  for  love, 

As  earnestly  as  sun-cracked  summer  earth 
Yearns  to  the  heavens  for  rain  —  none  ever  came. 

VIOLET. 

Oh,  say  not  so  !     I  love  thee  very  much  ; 
Let  me  but  grow  up  like  a  sweet-breathed  flower 
Within  this  ghastly  fissure  of  thy  heart ! 
Do  you  not  love  me,  Walter  ? 

WALTER. 

By  thy  tears 

I  love  thee  as  my  own  immortal  soul. 
Weep,  weep,  my  Beautiful  !     Upon  thy  face 
There  is  no  cloud  of  sorrow  or  distress, 
9 


130  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IX. 

It  is  as  moonlight,  pale,  serene  and  clear. 
Thy  tears  are  spilt  of  joy,  they  fall  like  rain 
From  heaven's  stainless  blue. 
Bend  over  me,  my  Beautiful,  my  Own. 
Oh,  I  could  lie  with  face  upturned  for  ever, 
And  on  thy  beauty  feed  as  on  a  star ! 

[Another  pause. 

Thy  face  doth  come  between  me  and  the  heaven  — 
Start  not,  my  dearest !  for  I  would  not  give 
Thee  in  thy  tears  for  all  yon  sky  lit  up 
For  a  god's  feast  to-night.     And  I  am  loved  ! 
Why  did  you  love  me,  Violet  ? 

VIOLET. 

The  sun 

Smiles  on  the  earth,  and  the  exuberant  earth 
Returns  the  smile  in  flowers  —  't  was  so  with  me. 
I  love  thee  as  a  fountain  leaps  to  light  — 
I  can  do  nothing  else. 

WALTER. 

Say  these  words  again, 
And  yet  again ;  never  fell  on  my  ear 
Such  drops  of  music. 

VIOLET. 

Alas  !  poor  words  are  weak  ; 


SCENE    IX.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  131 

So  are  the  daily  ills  of  common  life, 

To  draw  the  ingots  and  the  hoarded  pearls 

From  out  the  treasure-caverns  of  my  heart. 

Suffering,  despair,  and  death  alone  can  do  it : 

Poor  Walter!  [Kisses  him. 

WALTER. 

f.         Gods  !  I  could  out-Anthony 
Anthony  !     This  moment  I  could  scatter 
Kingdoms  like  halfpence.     I  am  drunk  with  joy. 
This  is  a  royal  hour  —  the  top  of  life. 
Henceforth  my  path  slopes  downward  to  the  grave  — 
All 's  dross  but  love.     That  largest  Son  of  Time, 
Who  wandered  singing  through  the  listening  world, 
Will  be  as  much  forgot  as  the  canoe 
That  crossed  the  bosom  of  a  lonely  lake 
A  thousand  years  ago.     My  Beautiful ! 
I  would  not  give  thy  cheek  for  all  his  songs  — 
Thy  kiss  for  all  his  fame.     Why  do  you  weep  ? 

VIOLET. 
To  think  that  we,  so  happy  now,  must  die. 

WALTER. 

That  thought  hangs  like  a  cold  and  slimy  snail 
On  the  rich  rose  of  love  —  shake  it  away  — 
Give  me  another  kiss,  and  I  will  take 


132  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    IX. 

Death  at  a  flying-leap.     The  night  is  fair, 

But  thou  art  fairer,  Violet !     Unloose 

The  midnight  of  thy  tresses,  let  them  float 

Around  us  both.     How  the  freed  ringlets  reel 

Down  to  the  dewy  grass  !     Here  lean  thy  head, 

Now  you  will  feel  my  heart  leap  'gainst  thy  cheek ; 

Imprison  me  with  those  white  arms  of  thine. 

So,  so.     O  sweet  upturned  face  !   (Kisses  he%.)  If  God 

Told  you  to-night  He  'd  grant  your  dearest  wish, 

What  would  it  be  ? 

VIOLET. 

That  he  would  let  you  grow 
To  your  ambition's  height.     What  would  be  yours  ? 

WALTER. 

A  greater  boon  than  Satan's  forfeit  throne  ! 
That  He  would  keep  us  beautiful  and  young 
For  ever,  as  to-night.     Oh,  I  could  live 
Unwearied  on  thy  beauty,  till  the  sun 
Grows  dim  and  wrinkled  as  an  old  man's  face. 
Our  cheeks  are  close,  our  breaths  mix  like  our  souls. 
We  have  been  starved  hereto  ;  Love's  banquet  spread, 
Now  let  us  feast  our  fills. 

VIOLET. 
Walter  ! 


133 


SCENE   X. 


A  Bridge  in  a  City  —  Midnight  —  WALTER  alone. 


WALTER. 

ADAM  lost  Paradise  —  eternal  tale 
Repeated  in  the  lives  of  all  his  sons. 
I  had  a  shining  orb  of  happiness, 
God  gave  it  me,  but  sin  passed  over  it 
As  small-pox  passes  o'er  a  lovely  face, 
Leaving  it  hideous.     I  have  lost  for  ever 
The  Paradise  of  young  and  happy  thoughts, 
And  now  stand  in  the  middle  of  my  life 
Looking  back  through  my  tears —  ne'er  to  return. 
I've  a  stern  tryst  with  Death,  and  must  go  on, 
Though  with  slow  steps  and  oft-reverted  eyes. 

'Tis  a  thick,  rich-hazed,  sumptuous  autumn  night; 
The  moon  grows  like  a  white  flower  in  the  sky ; 
The  stars  are  dim.     The  tired  year  rests  content 


134  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    X, 

Among  her  sheaves,  as  a  fond  mother  rests 

Among  her  children  ;  all  her  work  is  done. 

There  is  a  weight  of  peace  upon  the  world  ; 

It  sleeps  :  God's  blessing  on  it.     Not  on  me  I 

Oh,  as  a  lewd  dream  stains  the  holy  sleep, 

I  stain  the  holy  night,  yet  dare  not  die  ! 

I  knew  this  river's  childhood,  from  the  lake 

That  gave  it  birth,  till,  as  if  spilt  from  heaven, 

It  floated  o'er  the  face  of  jet-black  rocks, 

Graceful  and  gauzy  as  a  snowy  veil. 

Then  we  were  pure  as  the  blue  sky  above  us, 

Now  we  are  black  alike.     This  stream  has  turned 

The  wheels  of  commerce,  and  come  forth  distained ; 

And  now  trails  slowly  through  a  city's  heart, 

Drawing  its  filth  as  doth  an  evil  soul 

Attract  all  evil  things ;  putrid  and  black 

It  mingles  with  the  clear  and  strainless  sea. 

So  into  pure  eternity  my  soul 

Will  disembogue  itself. 

Good  men  have  said 

That  sometimes  God  leaves  sinners  to  their  sin,  — 
He  has  left  me  to  mine,  and  I  am  changed ; 
My  worst  part  is  insurgent,  and  my  will 
Is  weak  and  powerless  as  a  trembling. king 
When  millions  rise  up  hungry.     Woe  is  me  ! 
My  soul  breeds  sins  as  a  dead  body  worms ! 
They  swarm  and  feed  upon  me.     Hear  me,  God  ! 


SCENE    X.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  135 

Sin  met  me  and  embraced  me  on  my  way ; 

Mcthought  her  cheeks  were  red,  her  lips  had  bloom  ; 

I  kissed  her  bold  lips,  dallied  with  her  hair : 

She  sang  me  into  slumber.     I  awoke  — 

It  was  a  putrid  corse  that  clung  to  me, 

That  clings  to  me  like  memory  to  the  damned, 

That  rots  into  my  being.     Father !     God  ! 

I  cannot  shake  it  off,  it  clings,  it  clings  ;  — 

I  soon  will  grow  as  corrupt  as  itself.  [A  pause. 

God  sends  me  back  my  prayers,  as  a  father 

Returns  unoped  the  letters  of  a  son 

Who  has  dishonored  him. 

Have  mercy,  Fiend ! 

Thou  Devil,  thou  wilt  drag  me  down  to  hell. 
Oh,  if  she  had  proclivity  to  sin 
Who  did  appear  so  beauteous  and  so  pure, 
Nature  may  leer  behind  a  gracious  mask. 

And  God  himself  may  be I'm  giddy,  blind, 

The  world  reels  from  beneath  me. 

[  Catches  hold  of  the  parapet. 
(An  Outcast  approaches.)     Wilt  pray  for  me  ? 

GIRL  (shuddering). 
'Tis  a  dreadful  thing  to  pray. 

WALTER. 

Why  is  it  so  ? 


136  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE  X. 

Hast  them,  like  me,  a  spot  upon  thy  soul 

That  neither  tears  can  cleanse,  nor  fires  eterne  ? 

GIRL. 

But  few  request  my  prayers. 

WALTER. 

I  request  them. 

For  ne'er  did  a  dishevelled  woman  cling 
So  earnest-pale  to  a  stern  conqueror's  knees, 
Pleading  for  a  dear  life,  as  did  my  prayer 
Cling  to  the  knees  of  God.     He  shook  it  off, 
And  went  upon  His  way.     Wilt  pray  for  me  t 

GIRL. 

Sin  crusts  me  o'er  as  limpets  crust  the  rocks. 
I  would  be  thrust  from  ev'ry  human  door ; 
I  dare  not  knock  at  Heaven's. 

WALTER. 

Poor  homeless  one  ! 

There  is  a  door  stands  wide  for  thee  and  me  — 
The  door  of  hell.     Methinks  we  are  well  met. 
I  saw  a  little  girl  three  years  ago, 
With  eyes  of  azure  and  with  cheeks  of  red, 
A  crowd  of  sunbeams  hanging  down  her  face  ; 
Sweet  laughter  round  her ;  dancing  like  a  breeze. 


SCENE  X.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  137 

I'd  rather  lair  me  with  a  fiend  in  fire 

Than  look  on  such  a  face  as  hers  to-night. 

But  I  can  look  on  thee,  and  such  as  thee ; 

I'll  call  thee  '  Sister; '  do  thou  call  me  'Brother.' 

A  thousand  years  hence,  when  we  both  are  damned, 

We'll  sit  like  ghosts  upon  the  wailing  shore, 

And  read  our  lives  by  the  red  light  of  hell. 

Will  we  not,  Sister  ? 

GIRL. 

O  thou  strange  wild  man, 
Let  me  alone :  what  would  you  seek  with  me  ? 

WALTER. 

Your  ear,  my  Sister.     I  have  that  within 
Which  urges  me  to  utterance.     I  could  accost 
A  pensive  angel,  singing  to  himself 
Upon  a  hill  in  heaven,  and  leave  his  mind 
As  dark  and  turbid  as  a  trampled  pool, 
To  purify  at  leisure.  —  I  have  none 
To  listen  to  me,  save  a  sinful  woman 
Upon  a  midnight  bridge.  —  She  was  so  fair, 
God's  eye  could  rest  with  pleasure  on  her  face. 
Oh,  God,  she  was  so  happy  !     Her  short  life 
As  full  of  music  as  the  crowded  June 
Of  an  unfallen  orb.     What  is  it  now  ? 
She  gave  me  her  young  heart,  full,  full  of  love  : 


138  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    X. 

My  return  —  was  to  break  it.     Worse,  far  worse ; 
I  crept  into  the  chambers  of  her  soul, 
Like  a  foul  toad,  polluting  as  I  went. 

GIRL. 

I  pity  her —  not  you.     Man  trusts  in  God  ; 
He  is  eternal.     Woman  trusts  in  man, 
And  he  is  shifting  sand. 

WALTER. 

Poor  child,  poor  child  ! 
We  sat  in  dreadful  silence  with  our  sin, 
Looking  each  other  wildly  in  the  eyes  : 
Methought  I  heard  the  gates  of  heaven  close, 
She  flung  herself  against  me,  burst  in  tears, 
As  a  wave  bursts  in  spray.     She  covered  me 
With  her  wild  sorrow,  as  an  April  cloud 
With  dim  dishevelled  tresses  hides  the  hill 
On  which  its  heart  is  breaking.     She  clung  to  me 
With  piteous  arms,  and  shook  me  with  her  sobs, 
For  she  had  lost  her  world,  her  heaven,  her  God, 
And  now  had  nought  but  me  and  her  great  wrong. 
She  did  not  kilt  me  with  a  single  word, 
But  once  she  lifted  her  tear-dabbled  face  — 
Had  hell  gaped  at  my  feet  I  would  have  leapt 
Into  its  burning  throat,  from  that  pale  look. 
Still  it  pursues  me  like  a  haunting  fiend  : 


SCENE    X.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  139 

It  drives  me  out  to  the  black  moors  at  night, 

Where  I  am  smitten  by  the  hissing  rain, 

And  ruffian  winds,  dislodging  from  their  troops, 

Hustle  me  shrieking,  then  with  sudden  turn 

Go  laughing  to  their  fellows.     Merciful  God! 

It  comes  —  that  face  again,  that  white,  white  face, 

Set  in  a  night  of  hair ;  reproachful  eyes, 

That  make  me  mad.     Oh,  save  me  from  those  eyes! 

They  will  torment  me  even  in  the  grave, 

And  burn  on  me  in  Tophet. 

GIRL. 

Where  are  you  going  ? 

WALTER. 

My  heart's  on  fire  by  hell,  and  on  I  drive 
To  outer  blackness,  like  a  blazing  ship. 

[He  rushes  away. 


140 


SCENE    XI. 


Night. —  WALTER,  standing  alone  in  Ms  garden. 

WALTER. 

SUMMER  hath  murmured  with  her  leafy  lips 
Around  my  home,  and  I  have  heard  her  not ; 
I've  missed  the  process  of  three  several  years, 
From  shaking  wind-flowers  to  the  tarnished  gold 
That  rustles  sere  on  Autumn's  aged  limbs. 
I  went  three  years  ago,  and  now  return, 
As  stag  sore-hunted  a  long  summer  day 
Creeps  in  the  eve  to  its  deep  forest-home.     [A  pause. 
This  is  my  home  again !    Once  more  I  hail 
The  dear  old  gables  and  the  creaking  vanes. 
It  stands  all  flecked  with  shadows  in  the  moon, 
Patient,  and  white,  and  woeful.     'Tis  so  still, 
It  seems  to  brood  upon  its  youthful  years, 
When  children  sported  on  its  ringing  floors, 
And  music  trembled  through  its  happy  rooms. 


SCENE    XI.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  141 

'T  was  here  I  spent  my  youth,  as  far  removed 

From  the  great  heavings,  hopes,  and  fears  of  man, 

As  unknown  isle  asleep  in  unknown  seas. 

Gone  my  pure  heart,  and  with  it  happy  days ; 

No  manna  falls  around  me  from  on  high, 

Barely  from  off  the  desert  of  my  life 

I  gather  patience  and  severe  content. 

God  is  a  worker.     He  has  thickly  strewn 

Infinity  with  grandeur.     God  is  Love  ; 

He  yet  shall  wipe  away  Creation's  tears, 

And  all  the  worlds  shall  summer  in  His  smile. 

Why  work  I  not  ?    The  veriest  mote  that  sports 

Its  one-day  life  within  the  sunny  beam 

Has  its  stern  duties.     Wherefore  have  I  none  ? 

I  will  throw  off  this  dead  and  useless  past, 

As  a  strong  runner,  straining  for  his  life, 

Unclasps  a  mantle  to  the  hungry  winds. 

A  mighty  purpose  rises  large  and  slow 

From  out  the  fluctuations  of  my  soul, 

As,  ghost-like,  from  the  dim  and  tumbling  sea 

Starts  the  completed  moon.  [Another  pause. 

I  have  a  heart  to  dare, 
And  spirit-thews  to  work  my  daring  out ; 
I  '11  cleave  the  world  as  a  swimmer  cleaves  the  sea, 
Breaking  the  sleek  green  billows  into  froth, 
With  tilting  full-blown  chest,  and  scattering 
With  scornful  breath  the  kissing,  flattering  foam, 


142  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    XI. 

That  leaps  and  dallies  with  his  dipping  lip. 

Thou  'rt  distant,  now,  O  World  !    I  hear  thee  not ; 

There  's  no  pale  fringes  of  thy  fires  to-night 

Around  the  large  horizon.     Yet,  O  World  ! 

I  have  thee  in  my  power,  and  as  a  man 

By  some  mysterious  influence  can  sway 

Another's  mind,  making  him  laugh  and  weep, 

Shudder  or  thrill,  such  power  have  I  on  thee. 

Much  have  I  suffered,  both  from  thee  and  thine  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  'scape  me,  World  !  I  '11  make  thee  weep  ; 

I'll  make  my  lone  thought  cross  thee  like  a  spirit, 

And  blanch  thy  braggart  cheeks,  lift  up  thy  hair, 

And  make  thy  great  knees  tremble  ;  I  will  send 

Across  thy  soul  dark  herds  of  demon  dreams, 

And  make  thee  toss  and  moan  in  troubled  sleep ; 

And,  waking,  I  will  fill  thy  forlorn  heart 

With  pure  and  happy  thoughts,  as  summer  woods 

Are  full  of  singing-birds.     I  come  from  far, 

I  '11  rest  myself,  O  World  !  awhile  on  thee, 

And  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,  I  '11  cut 

My  name  upon  thee,  pass  the  arch  of  Death, 

Then  on  a  stair  of  stars  go  up  to  God. 


143 


SCENE   XII. 


An  Apartment  —  CHARLES  and  EDWARD  seated. 


EDWARD. 

HAVE  you  seen  Walter  lately  ? 

CHARLES. 

Very  much ; 
I  wintered  with  him. 

EDWARD. 
What  was  he  about  ? 

CHARLES. 

He  wrote  his  Poem  then. 

EDWARD. 

That  was  a  hit ! 
The  world  is  murmuring  like  a  hive  of  bees  : 


144  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    XII. 

He  is  its  theme  —  to-morrow  it  may  change. 
Was  it  done  at  a  dash  ? 

CHARLES. 

It  was  ;  each  word  sincere, 

As  blood-drops  from  the  heart.     The  full-faced  moon, 
Set  round  with  stars,  in  at  his  casement  looked, 
And  saw  him  write  and  write  :  and  when  the  moon 
Was  waning  dim  upon  the  edge  of  morn, 
Still  sat  he  writing,  thoughtful-eyed  and  pale  ; 
And,  as  of  yore,  round  his  white  temples  reeled 
His  golden  hair,  in  ringlets  beautiful. 
Great  joy  he  had,  for  thought  came  glad  and  thick 
As  leaves  upon  a  tree  in  primrose-time  ; 
And  as  he  wrote,  his  task  the  lovelier  grew, 
Like  April  unto  May,  or  as  a  child, 
A-smile  in  the  lap  of  life,  by  fine  degrees 
Orbs  to  a  maiden,  walking  with  meek  eyes 
In  atmosphere  of  beauty  round  her  breathed. 
He  wrote  all  winter  in  an  olden  room, 
Hallowed  with  glooms  and  books.     Priests  who  have 

wed 

Their  makers  unto  Fame,  Moons  that  have  shed 
Eternal  halos  around  England's  head  ; 
Books  dusky  and  thumbed  without,  within,  a  sphere 
Smelling  of  Spring,  as  genial,  fresh,  and  clear, 
And  beautiful,  as  is  the  rainbowed  air 


SCENE    XII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  145 

After  May  showers.     Within  this  pleasant  lair 
He  passed  in  writing  all  the  winter  moons ; 
But  when  May  came,  with  train  of  sunny  noons, 
He  chose  a  leafy  summer-house  within 
The  greenest  nook  in  all  his  garden  green ; 
Oft  a  fine  thought  would  flusji  his  face  divine, 
As  he  had  quaffed  a  cup  of  olden  wine, 
Which  deifies  the  drinker :  oft  his  face 
Gleamed  like  a  spirit's  in  that  shady  place, 
While  he  saw,  smiling  upward  from  the  scroll, 
The  image  of  the  thought  within  his  soul ; 
There,  'mid  the  waving  shadows  of  the  trees, 
'Mong  garden-odors  and  the  hum  of  bees, 
He  wrote  the  last  and  closing  passages. 
He  is  not  happy. 

EDWARD. 

Has  he  told  you  so  ? 

CHARLES. 

Not  in  plain  terms.     Oft  an  unhappy  thought, 
Telling  all  is  not  well,  falls  from  his  soul 
Like  a  diseased  feather  from  the  wing 
Of  a  sick  eagle  ;  a  scorched  meteor-stone 
Dropped  from  the  ruined  moon. 
10 


146  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    XII. 


EDWARD. 


What  are  these  thoughts  ? 


CHARLES. 

I  walked  with  him  upon  a  windy  night ; 
We  saw  the  streaming  moon  flee  through  the  sky 
Pursued  by  all  the  dark  and  hungry  clouds. 
He  stopped  and  said  :    c  Weariness  feeds  on  all. 
That  Vampire,  Time,  shall  yet  suck  dim  the  sun. 
God  wearies,  and  so  makes  a  universe, 
And  gathers  angels  round  Him.  —  He  is  weak  ; 
I  weary,  and  so  wreak  myself  in  verse. 
Which  but  relieves  me  as  a  six-inch  pipe 
Relieves  the  dropsied  sea.     Oh,  for  mad  War ! 
I M  give  my  next  twelve  years  to  head  but  once 
Ten  thousand  horse  in  a  victorious  charge. 
Give  me  some  one  to  hate,  and  let  me  chase 
Him  through  the  zones,  and  finding  him  at  last, 
Make  his  accursed  eyes  leap  on  his  cheeks, 
And  his  face  blacken,  with  one  choking  gripe.' 

EDWARD. 

Savage  enough,  i'  faith  ! 

CHARLES. 

He  often  said, 


SCENE    XII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  147 

His  strivings  after  Poesy  and  Fame 

Were  vain  as  turning  blind  eyes  on  the  sun. 

His  Book  came  out;  I  told  him  that  the  world 

Hailed  him  a  Poet.     He  said,  with  feeble  smile, 

'  I  have  arisen  like  a  dawn  —  the  world, 

Like  the  touched  Memnon,  murmurs  —  that  is  all.' 

He  said,  as  we  were  lying  on  the  moss, 

(A  forest  sounding  o'er  us,  like  a  sea 

Above  two  mermen  seated  on  the  sands,) 

4  Our  human  hearts  are  deeper  than  our  souls, 

And  Love  than  Knowledge  is  diviner  food  — 

Oh,  Charles  !  if  God  will  ever  send  to  thee 

A  heart  that  loves  thee,  reverence  that  heart. 

We  think  that  Death  is  haro1  when  he  can  kill 

An  infant  smiling  in  his  very  face  : 

Harder  was  I  than  Death.  —  In  cup  of  sin 

I  did  dissolve  thee,  thou  most  precious  pearl, 

Then  drank  thee  up.'     We  sat  one  eve, 

Gazing  in  silence  on  the  falling  sun  : 

We  saw  him  sink.     Upon  the  silent  world, 

Like  a  fine  veil,  came  down  the  tender  gloom ; 

A  dove  came  fluttering  round  the  window,  flew 

Away,  and  then  came  fluttering  back.     He  said, 

4  As  that  dove  flutters  round  the  casement,  comes 

A  pale  shape  round  my  soul;  I've  done  it  wrong, 

I  never  will  be  happy  till  I  ope 


148  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    XII. 

My  heart  and  take  it  in.'  —  'T  was  ever  so  ; 

To  some  strange  sorrow  all  his  thoughts  did  tend, 

Like  waves  unto  a  shore.     Dost  know  his  grief? 

EDWARD. 

I  dimly  guess  it ;  a  rich  cheek  grew  pale, 

A  happy  spirit  singing  on  her  way 

Grew  mute  as  winter.     Walter,  mad  and  blind, 

Threw  off  the  world,  God,  unclasped  pleading  arms, 

Rushed  wild  through  Pleasure  and  though  Devil- world, 

Till  he  fell  down  exhausted.  —  Do  you  know 

If  he  believes  in  God  ? 

CHARLES. 

He  told  me  once, 

The  saddest  thing  that  can  befall  a  soul 
Is  when  it  loses  faith  in  God  and  Woman ; 
For  he  had  lost  them  both.  —  Lost  I  those  gems  — 
Though  the  world's  throne  stood  empty  in  my  path, 
I  would  go  wandering  back  into  my  childhood, 
Searching  for  them  with  tears. 

EDWARD. 

Let  him  go 

Alone  upon  his  waste  and  dreary  road, 
He  will  return  to  the  old  faith  he  learned 


SCENE    XII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  149 

Reside  his  mother's  knee.     That  memory 
That  haunts  him,  as  the  sweet  and  gracious  moon 
Haunts  the  poor  outcast  Earth,  will  lead  him  back 
To  happiness  and  God. 

CHARLES. 

May  it  be  so  ! 


150 


SCENE   XIII. 


Afternoon. — WALTER  and  VIOLET  entering  the  garden 
from  the  house. 

VIOLET. 

THIS  is  the  dwelling  you  have  told  me  of,  — 
Summer  again  hath  dressed  its  bloomy  walls, 
Its  fragrant  front  is  populous  with  bees ; 
This  is  the  garden. —  all  is  very  like, 
And  yet  unlike  the  picture  in  my  heart ; 
I  know  not  which  is  loveliest.     I  see 
Afar  the  wandering  beauty  of  the  stream, 
And  nearer  I  can  trace  it  as  it  shows 
Its  broad  and  gleaming  back  among  the  woods. 
Is  that  the  wood  you  slept  in  ? 

WALTER. 

That  is  it, 


SCENE    XIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  151 

And  every  nook  and  glade  and  tangled  dell, 

From  its  wide  circle  to  its  leafy  heart, 

Is  as  familiar  to  me  as  my  soul. 

Memories  dwell  like  doves  among  the  trees, 

Like  nymphs  in  glooms,  like  naiads  in  the  wells  ; 

And  some  are  sweet,  and  sadder  some  than  death. 

[A  pause. 

I  could  have  sworn  the  world  did  sing  in  air, 
I  was  so  happy  once.     The  eagle  drinks 
The  keen  blue  morning,  and  the  morn  was  mine. 
I  bathed  in  sunset,  and  to  me  the  night 
Was  a  perpetual  wonder  and  an  awe. 
Oft,  as  I  lay  on  earth  and  gazed  at  her, 
The  gliding  moon  with  influence  divine 
Would  draw  a  most  delicious  tide  of  tears 
And  spill  it  o'er  my  eyes.     Sadness  was  joy 
Of  but  another  sort.     My  happiness 
Was  flecked  wi^h  vague  and  transitory  griefs, 
As  sweetly  as  the  shining  length  of  June 
With  evanescent  eves ;  and  through  my  soul 
At  intervals  a  regal  pageant  passed, 
As  through  the  palpitating  streets  the  corse 
Of  a  great  chieftain,  rolled  in  music  rich, 
Moves  slow  towards  its  rest.     In  these  young  days 
Existence  was  to  me  sufficient  joy ; 
At  once  a  throne  and  kingdom,  crown  and  lyre. 
Now  it  is  but  a  strip  of  barren  sand, 


152  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [ SCENE  XIII. 

On  which  with  earnest  heart  I  strive  to  rear 
A  temple  to  the  Gods.  I  will  not  sadden  you. 

[  They  move  on. 
This  is  the  fountain  :  once  it  flashed  and  sano- 

O 

(Possessed  of  such  exuberance  of  joy) 
To  golden  sunrise,  the  blue  day,  and  when 
The  night  grew  gradual  o'er  it,  star  by  star,  — 
Now  it  is  mute  as  Memnon. 

VIOLET. 

Sad  again ! 

Its  brim  is  written  over  —  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
'T  is  mute  ;  but  have  you  made  its  marble  lips 
As  sweet  as  Music's  ? 

WALTER. 

Miserable  words ! 

The  offspring  of  some  most  unhappy  Ijours. 
To  me  this  fountain's  brim  is  sad  as  though 
'T  were  splashed  with  my  own  blood. 

VIOLET  (reads). 

1  Nature  cares  not 

Although  her  loveliness  should  ne'er  be  seen 
By  human  eyes,  nor  praised  by  human  tongues. 
The  cataract  exults  among  the  hills, 
And  wears  its  crown  of  rainbows  all  alone. 


SCENE    XIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  153 

Libel  the  ocean  on  his  tawny  sands, 

Write  verses  in  his  praise,  —  the  unmoved  sea 

Erases  both  alike.     Alas  for  man  ! 

Unless  his  fellows  can  behold  his  deeds 

He  cares  not  to  be  great.'     'T  is  very  true. 

The  next  is  written  in  a  languid  hand  : 

4  Sin  hath  drunk  up  my  pleasure,  as  eclipse 

Drinks  up  the  sunlight.     On  my  spirit  lies 

A  malison  and  ban.     What  though  the  Spring 

Makes  all  the  hills  and  valleys  laugh  in  green, — 

Ts  the  sea  healed,  or  is  the  plover's  cry 

Merry  upon  the  moor  ?     I  now  am  kin 

To  these,  and  winds,  and  ever-suffering  things.' 

Oh,  I  could  blot  these  words  out  with  my  tears ! 

WALTER. 
So  could  I  when  I  wrote  them. 

* 

VIOLET. 

What  is  next  r 

'  A  sin  lies  dead  and  dreadful  in  my  soul, 
Why  should  I  gaze  upon  it  day  by  day  ? 
Oh,  rather,  since  it  cannot  be  destroyed, 
Let  me  as  reverently  cover  it 
As  with  a  cloth  we  cover  up  the  dead, 
And  place  it  in  some  chamber  of  my  soul, 


154  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    XIII. 

Where  it  may  lie  unseen  as  sound,  yet  felt, — 
Making  life  hushed  and  awful.' 

WALTER. 

No  more.     No  more. 

Let  God  wash  out  this  record  with  His  rain  ! 
This  is  the  summer-house.  [  They  enter. 

It  is  as  sweet 

As  if  enamored  Summer  did  adorn 
It  for  his  Love  to  dwell  in.     I  love  to  sit 
And  hear  the  pattering  footsteps  of  the  shower, 
As  he  runs  over  it,  or  watch  at  noon 
The  curious  sunbeams  peeping  through  the  leaves. 

VIOLET. 

I've  always  pictured  you  in  such  a  place 
Writing  your  Book,  and  hurrying  on,  as  if 
You  had  a  long  and  wondrous  tale  to  tell, 
And  felt  Death's  cold  hand  closing  round  your  heart. 

WALTER. 
Have  you  read  my  Book  ? 

VIOLET. 
•  I  have. 


SCENE    XIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  155 

WALTER. 

It  is  enough. 

The  Book  was  only  written  for  two  souls, 
And  they  are  thine  and  mine. 

VIOLET. 

For  many  weeks, 

When  I  was  dwelling  by  the  moaning  sea, 
Your  name  was  blown  to  me  on  ev'ry  wind, 
And  I  was  glad  ;  for  by  that  sign  I  knew 
You  had  fulfilled  your  heart,  and  hoped  you  would 
Put  off  the  robes  of  sorrow,  and  put  on 
The  singing  crown  of  Fame.     One  dreary  morn 
Your  Book  came  to  me,  and  I  fondled  it, 
As  though  it  were  a  pigeon  sent  from  thee 
With  love  beneath  its  wing.     I  read  and  read 
Until  the  sun  lifted  his  cloudy  lids 
And  shot  wild  light  along  the  leaping  deep, 
Then  closed  his  eyes  in  death.     I  shed  no  tear, 
I  laid  it  down  in  silence,  and  went  forth 
Burdened  with  its  sad  thoughts :  slowly  I  went ; 
And,  as  I  wandered  through  the  deepening  gloom, 
I  saw  the  pale  and  penitential  moon 
Rise  from  dark  waves  that  plucked  at  her,  and  go 
Sorrowful  up  the  sky.     Then  gushed  my  tears  — 
The  tangled  problem  of  my  life  was  plain  — 
I  cried  aloud,     40h,  would  he  come  to  me  ! 


156  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    XIII. 

I  know  he  is  unhappy ;  that  he  strives 

As  fiercely  as  that  blind  and  desperate  sea, 

Clutching  with  all  its  waves  —  in  vain,  in  vain. 

He  never  will  be  happy  till  he  comes.' 

As  I  Went  home  the  thought  that  you  would  come 

Filled  my  lorn  heart  with  gladness,  as  the  moon 

Filled  the  great  vacant  night  with  moonlight,  till 

Its  silver  bliss  ran  o'er  —  so  after  prayer 

I  slept  in  the  lap  of  Peace  —  next  morn  you  came. 

WALTER. 

And  then  I  found  you  beautiful  and  pale  — 

Pale  as  that  moonlight  night !     O  Violet, 

I  have  been  undeceived.     In  my  hot  youth 

I  kissed  the  painted  bloom  off  Pleasure's  lips 

And  found  them  pale  as  Pain's,  —  and  wept  aloud. 

Never  henceforward  can  I  hope  to  drain 

The  rapture  of  a  lifetime  at  a  gulp. 

My  happiness  is  not  a  troubled  joy  ; 

'Tis  deep,  serene  as  death.     The  sweet  contents, 

The  happy  thoughts  from  which  I've  been  estranged, 

Again  come  round  me,  as  the  old  known  peers 

Surround  and  welcome  a  repentant  spirit, 

Who  by  the  steps  of  sorrow  hath  regained 

His  throne  and  golden  prime.     The  eve  draws  nigh! 

The  prosperous  sun  is  in  the  west,  and  sees 

From  the  pale  east  to  where  he  sets  in  bliss, 


SCENE  XIII.]  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  157 

His  long  road  glorious.     Wilt  thou  sing,  my  love, 
And  sadden  me  into  a  deeper  joy  ? 

VIOLET  sings. 

The  wondrous  ages  pass  like  rushing  waves,      * 
Each  crowned  with  its  own  foam.     Bards  die,  and 

Fame 

Hangs  like  a  pallid  meteor  o'er  their  graves. 
Religions  change,  and  come  and  go  like  flame. 

Nothing  remains  but  Love,  the  world's  round  mass 
It  doth  pervade,  all  forms  of  life  it  shares, 
The  institutions  that  like  moments  pass 
Are  but  the  shapes  the  masking  spirit  wears. 
Love  is  a  sanctifier;  'tis  a  moon, 
Turning  each  dusk  to  silver.     A  pure  light, 

Redeemer  of  all  errors 

[Ceases,  and  bursts  into  tears. 

WALTER. 

What  ails  you,  Violet  ? 
Has  music  stung  you  like  a  very  snake  ? 
Why  do  you  weep  ? 

VIOLET. 

Walter  !  dost  thou  believe 
Love  will  redeem  all  errors  ?     Oh,  my  friend, 


153  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    XIII, 

This  gospel  saves  you !  doubt  it,  you  are  lost. 
Deep  in  the  mists  of  sorrow  long  I  lay, 
Hopeless  and  still,  when  suddenly  this  truth 
Like  a  slant  sunbeam  quivered  through  the  mist, 
And  turned  it  into  radiance.     In  the  light 
I  wrote  these  words,  while  you  were  far  away 
Fighting  with  shadows.     Oh  !   Walter,  in  one  boat 
We  floated  o'er  the  smooth,  moon-silvered  sea ; 
The  sky  was  smiling  with  its  orbs  of  bliss ; 
And  while  we  lived  within  each  other's  eyes, 
We  struck  and  split,  and  all  the  world  was  lost 
In  one  wild  whirl  of  horror  darkening  down  ; 
At  last  I  gained  a  deep  and  silent  isle, 
Moaned  on  by  a  dim  sea,  and  wandered  round 
Week  after  week,  the  happy-mournful  shore, 
Wond'ring  if  you  had  'scaped. 

WALTER. 

Thou  noble  soul, 

Teach  me,  if  thou  art  nearer  God  than  I ! 
My  life  was  a  long  dream  ;  when  I  awoke, 
Duty  stood  like  an  angel  in  my  path, 
And  seemed  so  terrible,  I  could  have  turned 
Into  my  yesterdays,  and  wandered  back 
To  distant  childhood,  and  gone  out  to  God 
By  the  gate  of  birth,  not  death.     Lift,  lift  me  up 
By  thy  sweet  inspiration,  as  the  tide 


SCENE    X11I.]  A   LIFE-DRAMA.  159 

Lifts  up  a  stranded  boat  upon  the  beach. 
I  will  go  forth  'mong  men,  not  mailed  in  scorn, 
But  in  the  armor  of  a  pure  intent. 
Great  duties  are  before  me  and  great  songs, 
And  whether  crowned  or  crownless  when  I  fall, 
It  matters  not,  so  as  God's  work  is  done. 
I've  learned  to  prize  the  quiet  lightning-deed, 
Not  the  applauding  thunder  at  its  heels 
Which  men  call  Fame.     Our  night  is  past ; 
We  stand  in  precious  sunrise,  and  beyond 
A  long  day  stretches  to  the  very  end. 
Look  out,  my  Beautiful,  upon  the  sky  ! 
Even  puts  on  her  jewels.     Look  !  she  sets, 
Venus  upon  her  brow.     I  never  gaze 
Upon  the  evening  but  a  tide  of  awe, 
And  love,  and  wonder,  from  the  Infinite, 
Swells  up  within  me,  as  the  running  brine 
From  the  smooth-glistening,  wide-heaving  sea, 
Grows  in  the  creeks  and  channels  of  a  stream 
Until  it  threats  its  banks.     It  is  not  joy, 
'Tis  sadness  more  divine. 

VIOLET. 

How  quick  they  come, — 

World  after  world  !     See  the  great  moon  above 
Yon  undistinguishable  clump  of  trees 
Is  slowly  from  the  darkness  gathering  light ! 
You  used  to  love  the  moon  ! 


160  A    LIFE-DRAMA.  [SCENE    X1I1. 

WALTER. 

This  mournful  wind 

Has  surely  been  with  Winter,  'tis  so  cold. 
The  dews  are  falling,  Violet !     Your  cloak  — 
Draw  it  around  you.     Let  the  still  night  shine  ! 
A  star 's  a  cold  thing  to  a  human  heart, 
And  love  is  better  than  their  radiance.     Come  ! 
Let  us  go  in  together. 


AN  EVENING  AT  HOME. 


TO-DAY  a  chief  was  buried  —  let  him  rest. 

His  country's  bards  are  up  like  larks,  and  fill 

With  singing  the  wide  heavens  of  his  fame. 

To-night  I  sit  within  my  lonely  room, 

The  atmosphere  is  full  of  misty  rain, 

Wretched  the  earth  and  heaven.     Yesterday 

The  streets  and  squares  were  choked  with  yellow  fogs. 

To-morrow  we  may  all  be  drenched  in  sleet! 

Stretched  like  a  homeless  beggar  on  the  ground, 

The  city  sleeps  amid  the  misty  rain. 

Though  Rain  hath  pitched  his  tent  above  my  head, 

'Tis  but  a  speck  upon  the  happy  world. 

Since  I  've  began  to  trace  these  lines,  Sunrise 

Has  struck  a  land  and  woke  its  bleating  hills ; 

Afar  upon  some  black  and  silent  moor 

The  crystal  stars  are  shaking  in  the  wind ; 

An  ocean  gurgles,  for  the  stooping  moon 
11 


16*2  AN    EVENING  AT   HOME. 

Hath  kissed  him  into  peace,  and  now  she  smooths 

The  well-pleased  monster  with  her  silver  hand. 

Come,  naked,  gleaming  Spring  !  great  crowds  of  larks 

Fluttering  above  thy  head,  thy  happy  ears 

Loud  with  their  ringing  songs,  Bright  Saviour,  come  ! 

And  kill  old  Winter  with  thy  glorious  look, 

And  turn  his  corse  to  flowers ! 

I  sit  to-night 

As  dreary  as  the  pale,  deserted  East, 
That  sees  the  Sun,  the  Sun  that  once  was  hers, 
Forgetful  of  her,  flattering  his  new  love, 
The  happy-blushing  West.     In  these  long  streets 
Of  traffic  and  of  noise,  the  human  hearts 
Are  hard  and  loveless  as  a  wreck-strewn  coast. 
Eternity  doth  wear  upon  her  face 
The  veil  of  Time.     They  only  see  the  veil, 
And  thus  they  know  not  what  they  stand  so  near. 
Oh,  rich  in  gold  !     Beggars  in  heart  and  soul ! 
Poor  as  the  empty  void  !     Why,  even  I, 
Sitting  in  this  bare  chamber  with  my  thoughts, 
Am  richer  than  ye  all,  despite  your  bales, 
Your  streets  of  warehouses,  your  mighty  mills, 
Each  booming  like  a  world  faint  heard  in  space. 
Your  ships ;  unwilling  fires,  that  day  and  night 
Writhe  in  your  service  seven  years,  then  die 
Without  one  taste  of  peace.     Do  ye  believe 


AN    EVENING   AT   HOME.  163 

A  simple  primrose  on  a  grassy  bank 

Forth-peeping  to  the  sun,  a  wild  bird's-nest, 

The  great  orb  dying  in  a  ring  of  clouds, 

Like  hoary  Jacob  'mong  his  waiting  sons; 

The  rising  moon,  and  the  young  stars  of  God, 

Are  things  to  love  ?     With  these  my  soul  is  brimmed ; 

With  a  diviner  and  sercner  joy 

Than  all  thy  heaven  of  money-bags  can  bring 

Thy  dry  heart,  Worldling  ! 

The  terror-stricken  rain 
Flings  itself  wildly  on  the  window-panes, 
Imploring  shelter  from  the  chasing  wind. 
Alas !  to-night  in  this  wide  waste  of  streets 
It  beats  on  human  limbs  as  well  as  walls ! 
God  led  Eve  forth  into  the  empty  world  , 

From  Paradise.     Could  our  great  Mother  come 
And  see  her  children  now,  what  sight  were  worst, 
A  worker  woke  by  cruel  Day,  the  while 
A  kind  dream  feeds  with  sweetest  phantom-bread ; 
Him,  and  his  famished  ones ;  or  when  the  Wind, 
With  shuddering  fingers,  draws  the  veil  of  smoke, 
And  scares  her  with  a  battle's  bleeding  face  ? 

Most  brilliant  star  upon  the  crest  of  Time, 
Is  England.     England  !     Oh,  I  know  a  tale 
Of  those  far  summers  when  she  lay  in  the  sun, 


164  AN    EVENING   AT    HOME. 

Listening  to  her  own  larks,  with  growing  limbs, 

And  mighty  hands,  which  since  have  tamed  the  world, 

Dreaming  about  their  tasks.     This  dreary  night 

I'll  tell  the  story  to  my  listening  heart. 

I  sang't  to  thee,  O  unforgotten  Friend! 

(Who  dwellest  now  on  breezy  English  downs, 

While  I  am  drowning  in  the  hateful  smoke) 

Beside  the  river  which  I  long  have  loved. 

O  happy  Days  !     O  happy,  happy  Past ! 

O  Friend  !  I  am  a  lone  benighted  ship  ; 

Before  me  hangs  the  vast  untravelled  gloom, 

Behind  a  wake  of  splendor  fading  fast 

Into  the  hungry  gloom  from  whence  it  came. 

Two  days  the  Lady  gazed  toward  the  west, 

The  way  that  he  had  gone  ;   and  when  the  third 

From  its  high  noon  sloped  to  a  rosy  close, 

Upon  the  western  margin  of  the  isle, 

Feeding  her  petted  swans  by  tossing  bread 

Among  the  clumps  of  water-lilies  white, 

She  stood.     The  fond  Day  pressed  against  her  face  ; 

His  am'rous,  airy  fingers  with  her  robe 

Fluttered  and  played,  and  trembling,  touched  her  throat, 

And  toying  with  her  ringlets,  could  have  died 

Upon  her  sweet  lips  and  her  happy  cheeks ! 

With  a  long  rippling  sigh  she  turned  away, 

And  wished  the  sun  was  underneath  the  hills. 


AN    EVENING    AT    HOME.  165 

Anon  she  sang  ;  and  ignorant  Solitude, 

Astonished  at  the  marvel  of  her  voice, 

Stood  tranced  and  mute  as  savage  at  the  door 

Of  rich  cathedral  when  the  organ  rolls, 

And  all  the  answering  choirs  awake  at  once. 

Then  she  sat  down  and  thought  upon  her  love ; 

Fed  on  the  various  wonders  of  his  face, 

To  make  his  absence  rich.     l  'T  is  but  three  days 

Since  he  went  from  me  in  his  light  canoe, 

And  all  the  world  went  with  him,  and  to-night 

He  will  be  back  again.     Oh,  when  he  comes, 

And  when  my  head  is  laid  upon  his  breast, 

And  in  the  pauses  of  the  sweetest  storm 

Of  kisses  that  e'er  beat  upon  a  face, 

I'll  tell  him  how  I've  pined,  and  sighed,  and  wept, 

And  thought  of  those  sweet  days  and  nights  that  flew 

O'er  us  unheeded  as  a  string  of  swans, 

That  wavers  down  the  sky  towards  the  sea,  — 

And  he  will  chide  me  into  blissful  tears, 

Then  kiss  the  tears  away.'     Quick  leapt  she  up, 

4  He  comes  !  he  comes  ! '     She  laughed,  and  clapt  her 

hands, 

A  light  canoe  came  dancing  o'er  the  lake, 
And  he  within  it  gave  a  cry  of  joy. 
She  sent  an  answer  back  that  drew  him  on. 
The  swans  are  scared,  —  the  lilies  rippled  —  now 
Her  happy  face  is  hidden  in  his  breast, 


166  AN    EVENING   AT    H031E. 

And  words  are  lost  in  joy.     '  My  Bertha  !  let 

Me  see  myself  again  in  those  dear  orbs. 

Have  you  been  lonely,  love  ? '     She  raised  her  head, 

'  You  surely  will  not  leave  me  so  again ! 

I'll  grow  as  pale's  the  moon,  and  my  praised  cheeks 

Will  be  as  wet  as  April's  if  you  do.' 

As  when  the  moon  hath  sleeked  the  blissful  sea, 

A  light  wind  wrinkles  it  and  passes  off, 

So  ran  a  transient  trouble  o'er  his  face. 

4  My  Bertha  !  we  must  leave  this  isle  to-night. 

Thy  shining  face  is  blanked  !     We  will  return 

Ere  thrice  the  day,  like  a  great  bird  of  light 

Flees  'cross  the  dark,  and  hides  it  with  his  wings.' 

'  Ah,  wherefore  ! '     '  Listen,  I  will  tell  you  why. 

4 1  stood  afar  upon  the  grassy  hills, 

I  saw  the  country  with  its  golden  slopes, 

And  woods,  and  streams,  run  down  to  meet  the  sea. 

I  saw  the  basking  ocean  skinned  with  light. 

I  saw  the  surf  upon  the  distant  sands 

Silent  and  white  as  snow.     Above  my  head 

A  lark  was  singing,  'ncath  a  sunny  cloud, 

Around  the  playing  winds.     As  I  went  down 

There  seemed  a  special  wonder  on  the  shore, 

Low  murmuring  crowds  around  a  temple  stood  : 

There  was  a  wildered  music  on  the  air, 

Which  came  and  went,  yet  ever  nearer  grew, 


AN    EVENING   AT    HOME.  167 

When,  lo !  a  train  came  upward  from  the  sea 
With  snowy  garments,  and  with  reverend  steps, 
Full  in  their  front  a  silver  cross  they  bore, 
And  this  sweet  hymn  they  strewed  along  the  winds. 

"  Blest  be  this  sunny  morning,  sweet  and  fair ! 

Blest  be  the  people  of  this  pleasant  land ! 

Ye  unseen  larks  that  sing  a  mile  in  air, 

Ye  waving  forests,  waving  green  and  grand, 

Ye  waves,  that  dance  upon  the  flashing  strand, 

Ye  children  golden-haired !  we  bring,  we  bring 

A  gospel  hallowing." 

Then  one  stood  forth  and  spoke  against  the  gods ; 

He  called  them  "  cruel  gods,"  and  then  he  said, 

"  We  have  a  Father,  One  who  dwells  serene, 

'Bove  thunder  and  the  stars,  Whose  eye  is  mild, 

And  ever  open  as  the  summer  sky  : 

Who  cares  for  everything  on  earth  alike, 

Who  hears  the  plovers  crying  in  the  wind, 

The  happy  linnets  singing  in  the  broom, 

Whose  smile  is  sunshine."    When  the  old  man  ceased, 

Forth  from  the  murmuring  crowd,  there  stepped  a  youth 

As  bright-haired  as  a  star,  and  cried  aloud, 

"  Friends !'  I"ve  grown  up  among  the  wilds,  and  found 

Each  outward  form  is  but  a  window  whence 

Terror  or  Beauty  looks.     Beauty  I  've  seen 

In  the  sweet  eyes  of  flowers,  along  the  streams, 


168  AN    EVENING    AT    HOME. 

And  in  the  cold  and  crystal  wells  that  sleep 

Far  in  the  murmur  of  the  summer  woods ; 

Terror  in  fire  and  thunder,  in  the  worn 

And  haggard  faces  of  the  winter  clouds, 

In  shuddering  winds,  and  oft  on  moonless  nights 

I  've  heard  it  in  the  white  and  wailing  fringe 

That  runs  along  the  coast  from  end  to  end. 

The  mountains  brooded  on  some  wondrous  thought 

Which  they  would  ne'er  reveal.     I  seemed  to  stand 

Outside  of  all  things ;  my  desire  to  know 

Grew  wild  and  eager  as  a  starving  wolf. 

To  gain  the  secret  of  the  awful  world, 

I  knelt  before  the  gods,  and  then  held  up 

My  heart  to  them  in  the  pure  arms  of  prayer  — 

They  gave  no  answer,  or  had  none  to  give. 

Friends  !  I  will  test  these  sour  and  sullen  gods  : 

If  they  are  weak,  'tis  well,  we  then  may  list 

Unto  the  strangers ;  but  if  my  affront 

Draw  angry  fire,  I  shall  be  slain  by  gods, 

And  Death  may  have  no  secrets.     A  spear !  a  steed  !  " 

A  steed  was  brought  by  trembling  hands,  he  sprang 

And  dashed  towards  the  temple  with  a  cry. 

A  shudder  ran  through  all  the  pallid  crowds. 

I  saw  him  enter,  and  my  sight  grew  dim, 

And  on  a  long-suspended  breath  I  stood, 

Till  one  might  count  a  hundred  beats  of  heart : 

Then  he  rode  slowly  forth,  and,  wondrous  strange ! 


AN    EVENING    AT    HOME.  169 

Although  an  awful  gleam  lay  on  his  face, 

His  charger's  limbs  were  drenched  with  terror-sweat. 

Amid  the  anxious  silence  loud  he  cried, 

"  Gods,  marvellously  meek !     Why,  any  child 

May  pluck  them  by  the  beard,  spit  in  their  face, 

Or  smite  them  on  the  mouth  ;  they  can  do  nought, 

But  sit  like  poor  old  foolish  men,  and  moan. 

I  flung  my  spear." —  Here,  as  a  singing  rill 

Is  in  the  mighty  noise  of  ocean  drowned, 

His  voice  was  swallowed  in  the  shouts  that  rose, 

And  touched  the  heavens,  ran  along  the  hills, 

Thence  came  on  after-silence,  strange  and  dim. 

A  voice  rose  'mong  the  strangers,  like  a  lark 

And  warbled  out  its  joy,  then  died  away. 

And  the  old  man  that  spoke  before  went  on, 

And,  oh  !  the  gentle  music  of  his  voice 

Stirred  through  my  heart-strings  like  a  wind  through 

reeds. 

He  said,  "  It  was  God's  hand  that  shaped  the  world 
And  laid  it  in  the  sunbeams:1'   and  that  "  God, 
With  His  great  presence  fills  the  universe. 
That  could  we  dwell  like  night  among  the  stars, 
Or  plunge  with  whales  in  the  unsounded  sea, 
He  still  would  be  around  us  with  His  care." 
And  also,  "  That,  as  flowers  come  back  in  Spring, 


170  AN    EVENING   AT    HOME. 

We  would  live  after  Death."     I  heard  no  more. 

I  thought  of  thee  in  this  delightful  isle, 

Pure  as  a  prayer,  and  wished  that  I  had  wings 

To  tell  you  swiftly,  that  the  death  we  feared 

Was  but  a  gray  eve  'tween  two  shining  days, 

That  we  would  love  for  ever !     Then  I  thought 

Our  home  might  be  in  that  transparent  star 

Which  we  have  often  watched  from  off  this  verge 

Stand  in  the  dying  sunset,  large  and  clear  — 

The  humming  world  awoke  me  from  my  dream. 

I  saw  the  old  gods  tumbled  on  the  grass 

Like  uncouth  stones,  they  threw  the  temple  wide, 

And  Summer,  with  her  bright  and  happy  face, 

Lookqd  in  upon  its  gloom,  and  pensive  grew. 

The  while  among  the  tumult  of  the  crowds, 

Divinest  hymns  the  white-robed  strangers  sang. 

I  wearied  for  thee,  Bertha !  and  I  came. 

Wilt  go  and  hear  these  strangers? '    She  turned  on  him 

A  look  of  love  —  a  look  that  richly  crowned 

A  moment  heavenly  rich,  and  murmured  4  Yes.' 

He  kissed  her  proudly,  while  a  giddy  tear, 

Wild  with  its  happiness,  ran  down  her  cheek 

And  perished  in  the  dew.     They  took  their  seats, 

And  as  the  paddles  struck,  gray-pinioned  Time 

Flew  through  the  gates  of  sunset  into  Night, 

And  held  through  stars  to  gain  the  coasts  of  Mom. 


AN    EVENING   AT    HOME.  171 

'T  is  clone  !     The  phantoms  of  my  soul  have  fled 

Into  the  night,  and  I  am  left  alone 

With  that  sweet  sadness  which  doth  ever  dwell 

On  the  brink  of  tears ;  I  stare  i'  th'  crumbling  fire 

Which  from  my  brooding  eye  takes  strangest  shapes. 

The  Past  is  with  me,  and  I  scarcely  hear 

Outside  the  weeping  of  the  homeless  rain. 


LADY    BARBARA. 


EARL  GAWAIN  wooed  the  Lady  Barbara,  — 

High-thoughtcd  Barbara,  so  white  and  cold ! 

'Mong  broad-branched  beeches  in  the  summer  shaw, 

In  soft  green  light  his  passion  he  has  told. 

When  rain-beat  winds  did  shriek  across  the  wold, 

The  Earl  to  take  her  fair  reluctant  ear 

Framed  passion-trembled  ditties  manifold  ; 

Silent  she  sat  his  am'rous  breath  to  hear, 

With  calm  and  steady  eyes,  her  heart  was  otherwhere. 

He  sighed  for  her  through  all  the  summer  weeks ; 
Sitting  beneath  a  tree  whose  fruitful  boughs 
Bore  glorious  apples  with  smooth-shining  cheeks, 
Earl  Gawain  came  and  whispered, 4  Lady,  rouse  ! 
Thou  art  no  vestal  held  in  holy  vows, 
Out  with  our  falcons  to  the  pleasant  heath.' 
Her  father's  blood  leapt  up  unto  her  brows  — 


174  LADY    BARBARA. 

He  who  exulting  on  the  trumpet's  breath, 

Came  charging  like  a  star  across  the  lists  of  death, 

Trembled,  and  passed  before  her  high  rebuke  : 

And  then  she  sat,  her  hands  clasped  round  her  knee : 

Like  one  far-thoughted  was  the  lady's  look, 

For  in  a  morning  cold  as  misery 

She  saw  a  lone  ship  sailing  on  the  sea  ; 

Before  the  north  't  was  driven  like  a  cloud, 

High  on  the  poop  a  man  sat  mournfully : 

The  wind  was  whistling  through  mast  and  shroud, 

And  to  the  whistling  wind  thus  did  he  sing  aloud  :  — 

4  Didst  look  last  night  upon  my  native  vales, 

Thou  Sun !  that  from  the  drenching  sea  has  clomb  ? 

Ye  demon  winds  !  that  glut  my  gaping  sails, 

Upon  the  salt  sea  must  I  ever  roam, 

Wander  for  ever  on  the  barren  foam  ? 

O  happy  are  ye,  resting  mariners, 

0  Death,  that  thou  wouldst  come  and  take  me  home  ! 
A  hand  unseen  this  vessel  onward  steers, 

And  onward  I  must  float  through  slow  moon-measured 
years. 

1  Ye  winds  !  when  like  a  curse  ye  drove  us  on, 
Frothing  the  waters,  and  along  our  way, 

Nor  cape,  nor  headland,  through  red  mornings  shone, 


LADY  BARBARA.  175 

One  wept  aloud,  one  shuddered  down  to  pray, 
One  howled,  4<  Upon  the  Deep  we  are  astray." 
On  our  wild  hearts  his  words  fell  like  a  blight : 
In  one  short  hour  my  hair  was  stricken  gray, 
For  all  the  crew  sank  ghastly  in  my  sight 
As  we  went  driving  on  through  the  cold  starry  night. 

4  Madness  fell  on  me  in  my  loneliness, 
The  sea  foamed  curses,  and  the  reeling  sky 
Became  a  dreadful  face  which  did  oppress 
Me  with  the  weight  of  its  unwinking  eye. 
It  fled,  when  I  burst  forth  into  a  cry  — 
A  shoal  of  fiends  came  on  me  from  the  deep, 
I  hid,  but  in  all  corners  they  did  pry, 
And  dragged  me  forth,  and  round  did  dance  and  leap  ; 
They  mouthed  on   me  in  dream,   and  tore  me  from 
sweet  sleep. 

4  Strange  constellations  burned  above  my  head, 
Strange  birds  around  the  vessel  shrieked  and  flew, 
Strange  shapes,  like  shadows,  through  the  clear  sea  fled, 
As  our  lone  ship,  wide-winged,  came  rippling  through, 
Angering  to  foam  the  smooth  and  sleeping  blue.' 
The  lady  sighed, 4  Far,  far  upon  the  sea, 
My  own  Sir  Arthur,  could  I  die  with  you  ! 
The  wind  blows  shrill  between  my  love  and  me.' 
Fond  heart !  the  space  between  was  but  the  apple-tree. 


176  LADY   BARBARA. 

There  was  a  cry  of  joy,  with  seeking  hands 

She  fled  to  him,  like  worn  bird  to  her  nest ; 

Like  washing  water  on  the  figured  sands, 

His  being  came  and  went  in  sweet  unrest, 

As  from  the  mighty  shelter  of  his  breast 

The  Lady  Barbara  her  head  uprears 

With  a  wan  smile,  '  Methinks  I'm  but  half  blest, 

Now  when  I've  found  thee.  after  weary  years, 

I  cannot  see  thee,  love  !  so  blind  I  am  with  tears.' 


- 


TO 


THE  broken  moon  lay  in  the  autumn  sky, 

And  I  lay  at  thy  feet ; 
You  bent  above  me  ;  in  the  silence  I 

Could  hear  my  wild  heart  beat. 

I  spoke ;  my  soul  was  full  of  trembling  fears 

At  what  my  words  would  bring : 
You  raised  your  face,  your  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 

As  the  sweet  eyes  of  Spring. 

You  kissed  me  then,  I  worshipped  at  thy  feet 

Upon  the  shadowy  sod. 
Oh,  fool,  I  loved  thee  !  loved  thee,  lovely  cheat ! 

Better  than  Fame  or  God. 
12 


178  TO  . 

My  soul  leaped  up  beneath  thy  timid  kiss  : 

What  then  to  me  were  groans, 
Or  pain,  or  death  ?     Earth  was  a  round  of  bliss, 

I  seemed  to  walk  on  thrones. 

And  you  were  with  me  'mong  the  rushing  wheels, 

'Mid  Trade's  tumultuous  jars  ; 
And  where  to  awe-struck  wilds  the  Night  reveals 

Her  hollow  gulfs  of  stars. 

Before  your  window,  as  before  a  shrine, 
I've  knelt  'mong  dew-soaked  flowers, 

While  distant  music-bells,  with  voices  fine, 
Measured  the  midnight  hours. 

There  came  a  fearful  moment :  I  was  pale, 

You  wept,  and  never  spoke, 
But  clung  around  me  as  the  woodbine  frail 

Clings,  pleading,  round  an  oak. 

Upon  my  wrong  I  steadied  up  my  soul, 

And  flung  thee  from  myself; 
I  spurned  thy  love  as  'twere  a  rich  man's  dole, — 

It  was  my  only  wealth. 


TO  .  179 

I  spurned  thec  !  I,  who  loved  thee,  could  have  died, 

That  hoped  to  call  thee  '  wife,' 
And  bear  thee,  gently  smiling  at  my  side, 

Through  all  the  shocks  of  life ! 

Too  late,  thy  fatal  beauty  and  thy  tears, 

Thy  vows,  thy  passionate  breath  ; 
I'll  meet  thee  not  in  Life,  nor  in  the  spheres 

Made  visible  by  Death. 


SONNETS. 


I  CANNOT  deem  why  men  toil  so  for  Fame. 
A  porter  is  a  porter  though  his  load 
Be  the  oceaned  world,  and  although  his  roa« 
Be  down  the  ages.     What  is  in  a  name  ? 
Ah !  'tis  our  spirit's  curse  to  strive  and  seek. 
Although  its  heart  is  rich  in  pearls  and  ores, 
The  Sea  complains  upon  a  thousand  shores ; 
Sea-like  we  moan  for  ever.     We  are  weak. 
We  ever  hunger  for  diviner  stores. 
I  cannot  say  I  have  a  thirsting  deep 
For  human  fame,  nor  is  my  spirit  bowed 
To  be  a  mummy  above  ground  to  keep 
For  stare  and  handling  of  the  vulgar  crowd, 
Defrauded  of  my  natural  rest  and  sleep. 


182  SONNETS. 


THERE  have  been  vast  displays  of  critic  wit 
O'er  those  who  vainly  flutter  feeble  wings, 
Nor  rise  an  inch  'bove  ground,  —  weak  Poetlings  ! 
And  on  them  to  the  death  men's  brows  are  knit. 
Ye  men !  ye  critics !  seems  't  so  very  fit 
They  on  a  storm  of  laughter  should  be  blown 
O'er  the  world's  edge  to  Limbo  ?     Be  it  known, 
Ye  men !  ye  critics !  that  beneath  the  sun 
The  chiefest  woe  is  this,  —  When  all  alone, 
And  strong  as  life,  a  soul's  great  currents  run 
Poesy-ward,  like  rivers  to  the  sea, 
But  never  reach  't.     Critic,  let  that  soul  moan 
In  its  own  hell  without  a  kick  from  thee. 
Kind  Death,  kiss  gently,  ease  this  weary  one  ! 


SONNETS.  183 


JOY  like  a  stream  flows  through  the  Christmas-streets, 

But  I  am  sitting  in  my  silent  room, 

Sitting  all  silent  in  congenial  gloom. 

To-night,  while  half  the  world  the  other  greets 

With  smiles  and  grasping  hands  and  drinks  and  meats, 

T  sit  and  muse  on  my  poetic  doom  ; 

Like  the  dim  scent  within  a  budded  rose, 

A  joy  is  folded  in  my  heart ;  and  when 

I  think  on  Poets  nurtured  'mong  the  throes, 

And  by  the  lowly  hearths  of  common  men, — 

Think  of  their  works,  some  song,  some  swelling  ode 

With  gorgeous  music  growing  to  a  close, 

Deep-muffled  as  the  dead-march  of  a  god, — 

Mv  heart  is  burning  to  be  one  of  those. 


184  SONNETS. 


BEAUTY  still  walketh  on  the  earth  and  air, 

Our  present  sunsets  are  as  rich  in  gold 

As  ere  the  Iliad's  music  was  out-rolled ; 

The  roses  of  the  Spring  are  ever  fair, 

'Along  branches  green  still  ring-doves  coo  and  pair, 

And  the  deep  sea  still  foams  its  music  old. 

So,  if  we  are  at  all  divinely  souled, 

This  beauty  will  unloose  our  bonds  of  care. 

'Tis  pleasant,  when  blue  skies  are  o'er  us  bending 

Within  old  starry-gated  Poesy, 

To  meet  a  soul  set  to  no  worldly  tune, 

Like  thine,  sweet  Friend !     Oh,  dearer  this  to  me 

Than  are  the  dewy  trees,  the  sun,  the  moon, 

Or  noble  music  with  a  golden  ending. 


SONNETS.  185 


LAST  night  my  cheek  was  wetted  with  warm  tears, 
Each  worth  a  world.     They  fell  from  eyes  divine. 
Last  night  a  loving  lip  was  pressed  to  mine, 
And  at  its  touch  fled  all  the  barren  years ; 
And  softly  couched  upon  a  bosom  white, 
Which  came  and  went  beneath  me  like  a  sea, 
An  emperor  I  lay  in  empire  bright, 
Lord  of  the  beating  heart,  while  tenderly 
Love-words  were  glutting  my  love-greedy  ears : 
Kind  Love,  I  thank  thee  for  that  happy  night ! 
Richer  this  cheek  with  those  warm  tears  of  thine 
Than  the  vast  midnight  with  its  gleaming  spheres. 
Leander  toiling  through  the  moonlight  brine, 
Kingdomless  Anthony,  were  scarce  my  peers. 


SONNETS. 


I  WROTE  a  Name  upon  the  river  sands 

With  her  who  bore  it  standing  by  my  side, 

Her  large  dark  eyes  lit  up  with  gentle  pride, 

And  leaning  on  my  arm  with  clasped  hands, 

To  burning  words  of  mine  she  thus  replied, 

'  Nay,  writ  not  on  thy  heart.     This  tablet  frail 

Fitteth  as  frail  a  vow.     Fantastic  bands 

Will  scarce  confine  these  limbs.'     I  turned  love-pale, 

I  gazed  upon  the  river'd  landscape  wide, 

And  thought  how  little  it  would  all  avail 

Without  her  love.     'Twas  on  a  morn  of  May, 

Within  a  month  I  stood  upon  the  sand, 

Gone  was  the  name  I  traced  with  trembling  hand, — 

And  from  my  heart  'twas  also  gone  away. 


SONNETS. 


LIKE  clouds  or  streams  we  wandered  on  at  will, 

Three  glorious  days,  till,  near  our  journey's  end, 

As  down  the  moorland  road  we  straight  did  wend, 

To  Wordsworth's  l  Inversneycl,'  talking  to  kill 

The  cold  and  cheerless  drizzle  in  the  air, 

'Bove  me  I  saw,  at  pointing  of  my  friend, 

An  old  Fort  like  a  ghost  upon  the  hill, 

Stare  in  blank  misery  through  the  blinding  rain, 

So  human-like  it  seemed  in  its  despair  — 

So  stunned  with  grief — long  gazed  at  it  we  twain. 

Weary  and  damp  we  reached  our  poor  abode, 

I,  warmly  seated  in  the  chimney-nook, 

Still  saw  that  old  Fort  o'er  the  moorland  road 

Stare  through  the  rain  with  strange  woe-wildered  look. 


188  SONNETS. 


SHEATH'D  is  the  river  as  it  glideth  by, 
Frost-pearl' d  are  all  the  boughs  in  forests  old, 
The  sheep  are  huddling  close  upon  the  wold, 
And  over  them  the  stars  tremble  on  high. 
Pure  joys  these  winter  nights  around  me  lie  ; 
'T  is  fine  to  loiter  through  the  lighted  streets 
At  Christmas  time,  and  guess  from  brow  and  pace 
The  doom  and  history  of  each  one  we  meet, 
What  kind  of  heart  beats  in  each  dusky  case ; 
Whiles  startled  by  the  beauty  of  a  face 
In  a  shop-light  a  moment.     Or  instead, 
To  dream  of  silent  fields  where  calm  and  deep 
The  sunshine  lieth  like  a  golden  sleep  — 
Recalling  sweetest  looks  of  Summers  dead. 


NOTICES  FROM  THE  LONDON  PRESS. 


1  MOST  abundant  in  beauties.  Our  extracts,  which  have  been 
chosen  chiefly  to  illustrate  our  account  of  the  poem,  have  scarcely 
shown  the  poet  at  his  best.  Everywhere  his  poem  has  lines  and 
phrases  revealing  a  wealth  of  poetical  thought  and  expression.'  — 
Athenaeum. 

1  Since  Tennyson,  no  poet  has  come  before  the  public  with  the 

same  promise  as  the  author  of  this  volume There  are  many 

lines  and  sentences  in  these  poems  which  must  become  familiar  on 
the  lips  of  lovers  of  poetry.'  —  Literary  Gazette. 

'  It  is  to  the  earlier  works  of  Keats  and  Shelley  alone  that  we  can 
look  for  a  counterpart  in  richness  of  fancy  and  force  of  expression. 
....  These  extracts  will  induce  every  lover  of  true  poetry  to  read 
the  rolume  for  himself;  we  do  not  think  that  after  such  reading  any 
one  will  be  disposed  to  doubt  that  Alexander  Smith  promises  to  be 
a  greater  poet  than  any  emergent  genius  of  the  last  few  years.'  — 
Spectator. 

'  The  most  striking  characteristic  of  these  poems  is  their  abundant 
imagery  —  fresh,  vivid,  concrete  images  actually  present  to  the  poet's 
mind,  and  thrown  out  with  a  dislinctiveness  and  a  delicacy  only 
poets  can  achieve.  There  is  not  a  page  of  this  volume  on  which  we 
cannot  find  some  novel  image,  some  Shaksperian  felicity  of  expres 
sion,  or  some  striking  simile.'  —  Westminster  Review. 


190      NOTICES  FROM  THE  LONDON  PRESS. 

'  Mr.  Smith  has  given  noble  proof  of  possessing  some  of  the  best 
attributes  of  the  true  poet.  One  of  his  special  characteristics  is  a 
luxuriant  imagination,  which  continually  suggests  poetical  images, 
and  is  happily  allied  to  a  singular  mastery  of  language  in  one  so 
young,  which  enables  him  to  apply  them  with  almost  intuitive 
felicity.  Nearly  every  page  is  studded  with  striking  metaphors.'  — 
Sunday  Times. 

1  It  is  seldom  that  a  new  work  is  met  with  which  furnishes  such 
incontestable  evidence  of  the  possession  of  great  powers  by  the 
author  as  the  present.  It  is  impossible  to  read  three  consecutive 
pages  without  feeling  in  the  presence  of  a  spirit  moved  with  a  pro 
found  sense  of  all  forms  of  spiritual  beauty.  Mr.  Smith's  language 
is,  in  the  purest  sense  of  the  word,  poetic,  —  that  is,  it  is  not  only  the 
very  best  for  the  expression  of  the  idea,  but  it  is  suggestive  —  it 
summons  up  all  the  accessories  to  the  idea.  It  is  strong  and  splen 
did  like  golden  armor.'  —  Daily  News. 

'  We  have  quoted  enough,  and  yet  we  have  not  quoted  a  third  of 
the  fine  passages  our  pencil  has  marked.  Having  read  these  extracts, 
turn  to  any  poet  you  will,  and  compare  the  texture  of  the  composition 
—  it  is  a  severe  test,  but  you  will  find  that  Alexander  Smith  bears  it 
well.'  —  Leader. 


14  DAY  USE 

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